Sherlock Holmes and the Immortal
by CrazyColorist
Summary: When a beautiful woman rises from the dead, Sherlock is fascinated to say the least. With a mysterious immortal on his hands and with danger coming from all sides Sherlock must unravel her history and discover the secrets of eternal life before it's too late.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the television series or the man. Sadly.

**Chapter 1**

The body was cold. Not frozen by any means, but close. It had an internal temperature of forty-seven degrees Fahrenheit which was odd for several reasons. One being that it was summer out; bright blue skies and highs in the mid-eighties. The body had been found outside under direct sunlight and it was near frozen. Another thing was that despite the obvious fact that it had been dead for some time (cold shortening, a phenomenon where if dead muscle chilled immediately after death the muscle stiffens in accelerated rigor mortis, had rendered the body very rigid placing the time of shortly before its discovery) there was no livor mortis. When a body lies dead for, what he estimated had been seven hours thirty to thirty-five minutes, the blood pools leaving a dark bruise-like discoloration in the heavier parts of the body facing down: buttocks, thighs or back. No bruising could imply that there was no blood but besides being dead there were no wounds or signs, at all, pointing to a cause of death let alone a full exsanguination.

Sherlock leaned over the body, his nostrils flaring indelicately over the icy blue tinged mouth. No scent of the more obvious poisons. In fact, he sniffed again more deeply, no scent at all. He pulled back sharply, the tiniest touch of confusion in his eyes. There's always some smell. Mints, the last meal they ate, a distinct lack of oral hygiene, but there was nothing.

"Milley," Sherlock said. "Molly," she corrected.

"Yes, Molly, of course," he said, completely distracted and not at all interested, "I need a few moments alone with the body."

"Five years," Molly said, her narrow lips twisting in agitation.

"What," Sherlock asked finally looking up at the flustered pathologist.

"We've worked together five years and you still can't get my name right?"

"Oh for god's sake, Molly, I was only joking but I really do need a few moments alone. Please."

"You never joke," she said gathering up a precarious stack of paperwork, her every movement radiating hurt feelings. In other words business as usual.

Sherlock sighed quietly, the only acknowledgement that he'd noticed her frustration. The swinging door wheezed shut defying her attempts to slam it.

He wasn't as oblivious as people believed. His face was austere, his posture haughty from an upper crust upbringing that brooked no slumping. He could also be a cold unfeeling bastard especially if he thought someone believed him to be a cold unfeeling bastard. Doesn't do to disappoint and a reputation as a sociopath savant meant that people gave him space. Which gave him room to think. Which was all he ever wanted.

Sherlock adjusted the tight band of his surgical glove, his eyes focusing on the body's mouth. He leaned over its face, gently prying open its lips and the cold bit through the thin latex as they moved with a soft pliancy that, due to rigor mortis, should've felt utterly different. Was his estimation of the time of death wrong? Unlikely. It was just one more thing to add to his mental list of idiosyncrasies. Not unique, surely. No individual body was unique. In death the body follows a certain pattern of decay. X follows Y to an inevitable conclusion excepting unexpected and exciting poisons, cleverly hidden bombs, not at all spontaneous combustion or whatever this was.

He craned his neck checking the gums which were healthy, sniffing again at the mouth which still refused to emit any smell what so ever, checked the state of the teeth which were perfect in a normal non-veneered way. They had taken care of that at least. He glimpsed down the length of the body, skimming passionlessly over her chest, the nipples a barely discernible blush shade against the paleness of her skin which was now marred by the "Y" incision Molly had made and stitched up earlier. Molly's autopsy results were the same as Sherlock's, no known cause of death and every indication of perfect health minus the nearly frozen and dead part.

He tried to open the mouth and the jaw refused to budge. It was much more resistant than it should have been; almost as though it were clenched tight against him.

Frowning Sherlock stepped back away from the body, his eyes running rapidly over her clear, cold skin. This was all wrong. Years of investigative work had honed an innate ability into razor sharpness and for him to have drawn a blank meant that something was astonishingly, fundamentally, wrong. He was becoming frustrated and when that happened normally the cadaver would be subjected to experiments that would send anyone else straight to jail or an asylum. He'd pushed his boundaries once by using a sledgehammer and drill to prove a cause of death but he was saved because, of course, he had been right. The body was cremated. What was left anyway.

Eschewing the hammer, Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone. _Need you for cause of death ID- SH_, he typed.

"Maybe just a little hammer," he muttered, turning to walk to the cabinet holding the worst of his implements from prying eyes when, with a painful gasp from lungs long since emptied of oxygen, the body sat straight up.

"Oh no!" she gasped, her bosom suddenly heaving in reanimation. She looked down, her dark eyes panicked at the vulgar stitching across her body.

Sherlock, who hadn't moved in the three or so seconds since she inexplicably rose from the dead, decided neither to faint nor panic. Maybe she was more unique than I had at first anticipated, he thought.

He turned towards her, hands held up in a sign of non-aggression. "Can I help you," he said, refusing the desire to piss himself.

She seemed to notice him for the first time and tried ineffectually to cover her nudity. Bashful, apparently. Funny since she was dead. To him that would've been far more humiliating.

"Where am I," she asked. Her voice sounded ragged, deeper probably than it would be under different circumstances he imagined. Having one's lungs removed and weighed would probably do that. A small part of his mind gibbered at this thought. All of her organs had been removed, categorized, and returned to their cavity. Her cavity. Her very dead and dissected cavity. Do not faint!

He blinked slowly gathering himself and pushing away the madness of seeing what was plainly impossible. "You're in Saint Bartholomew's hospital."

She looked around, dark hair sliding over her blue-tinted shoulders. "This doesn't look like a hospital," she said. "Who are you?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," his voice calm to reassure her. When he spoke it was more of a purr, baritone and utterly without his knowledge, devastating if he had any inclination to use it for seduction. He didn't, of course, but that didn't stop it from working.

She seemed to calm as his voice had an entirely unintended effect. She looked him up and down. He looked as he always did, black slacks and dark blue button up dress shirt tailored within an inch of its life over a slender but strong body. His tousled dark brown hair appeared black under the harsh fluorescent lights. Sherlock's pale blue-green eyes tilted upwards, held up by cheekbones so high he looked almost alien. An overly generous mouth and nose were bordering on unattractive but taken together and with that voice he was magnetic. She would pay closer attention to all of this later when she had thawed.

"I'm in a morgue, ain't I," she said. "But you aren't dressed like a lab person. Mortician? You kinda look like that."

"There's been an accident," he said, one eye beginning to twitch ever so slightly. Accident my ass. She was frozen, dead, and speaking. The only accident was that he had obviously gone insane.

"What," she said, again.

"There was an accident. You were found in Saint James' Park. Do you recall being there? Do you know what happened?"

Her fingers started picking at the stitches over her chest. She pulled slightly, unraveling the uppermost knot. Sherlock, never one for a weak stomach, felt his gorge rise. My god she's undoing her own stitches, he thought. I wonder if she'll flap open like an unlaced shoe.

"I was running."

"Jogging?"

"No running. Away. My family they…" she trailed off. The stitching had been undone to the top of her left breast. The edges touched and began to melding back into unblemished skin.

"That," he said slowly, "that is impossible." He rushed to her side. A deceased woman rising up to converse with him shook his resolve but somehow seeing dead flesh heal shattered his control. She still seemed confused and didn't notice him suddenly beside her. He watched closely as she tugged another stitch free, her icy skin silently healing its wake.

Sherlock brushed her hands away and pulled at the stitches himself. They broke with a tiny popping sound as he ripped them from her skin. His face was an inch from her navel as the last stitch slithered free.

"See something you like," she asked. Sherlock looked up. She appeared calmer now if a little bemused. Her voice had settled as well to a more normal register. Apparently those loose lungs had properly rearranged themselves.

"What the hell are you," he asked. "You show up here half-frozen and clearly dead. You have been fully autopsied and the toxicology showed that your blood, what remains, was clear of any known drug or poison but was sluggish and barely existent. If you had asked me before your sudden reanimation I'd have said that a new poison not of my knowing introduced to you not through a needle for there are no marks but orally, possibly rectally, but the unnatural tightening of your jaw and lack of odor point to you ingesting the poison and it causing the muscles to seize. There are no marks on your skin what so ever; no blemishes of any sort, scars, moles, bruising to say nothing of its restorative properties. You are upright and speaking though, from all of my indications, still clearly dead. You are not alive and yet here you sit. Why and how is that?"

"Good heavens," she said calmly, "you're a talker aren't you?" Her eyes sparkled catching the light and in their black depths he caught a flash of blue, then green, red, orange as though holographic paper became trapped under dark ice.

He stared at her silently until she shrugged. "I'm not human, not anymore," she said. "The why and how are a very long story and I need to get out of here. Are there any clothes I can borrow? Possibly a jacket as well, you weren't kidding about the freezing part."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"I don't accept that," Sherlock said.

"Oh, well, tough luck. Whoever put me here is probably going to come back to finish the job and if you're bright, and I'm thinkin' that you are, you'll get out of here too. Ugh, God, you really did chop me open didn't you? That's disgusting."

"You are dead!" he yelled, his hard-fought control slipping once more. "You cannot be here talking to me at all. I've either gone mad or this is some ridiculous hoax. You are human there is no alternative, stop being absurd."

She grimaced as she swung her legs off of the table. She was obviously stiff and still determined to cover what little dignity she had left. "Please, can I have a coat or a sheet or something?"

Sherlock grabbed his long wool trench coat off the back of a nearby stool and tossed it to her. She barely caught it but grinned at him thankfully as she shrugged it over her shoulders. Sherlock looked down, suddenly embarrassed by her nudity. When a body is dead they aren't naked, just meat. Something about a pulse makes things more intimate. Was there a pulse, he thought. Reaching out he pulled her wrist from the sleeve and to his surprise he felt a slight flutter.

"Your heart is beating," he said, "and you're warmer. Your temperature has gone up at least ten degrees. The drug is wearing off."

"Drug?" she said smiling as she snuggled back into his coat. It was deliciously warm and smelled amazing. She couldn't pin the scent; leather maybe with a touch of soap, spice, and a lingering whiff of cigarette smoke. "There is no drug. You, sir, are in denial and I ain't talking about the river."

Sherlock cringed at her awful grammar and resisted the urge to correct her. "Then explain yourself and leave off that not human nonsense."

"I told you the truth. I'm not human and I'm in deep shit so can we leave off this interrogation rubbish and get me the hell out of here? What time is it? How long have I been here?"

"You mean how long have you been dead?"

She nodded, waving one hand, the arm of his long coat flapping at his face. "You know what I mean," she said.

"If my estimation for your time of _death_," he emphasized the word looking at her reproachfully, "is correct then you've been out for nearly eight hours. You were found at 12:15 this afternoon. I've answered your questions now answer some of mine. If you refuse to admit that you're human then what are you?"

Her eyes glazed as she did the math in her head. "So it's almost six now. The sun goes down around seven tonight. Huh," she trailed off then came back to herself, "Oh, sorry 'bout that. Yeah I started calling us 'nippers some time back but the big wigs don't like that. They say it belittles our kind," she mimicked an aristocratic accent. "Bollocks to that. They kinda remind me of you, in fact."

Good god, Sherlock thought to himself, this is like herding cats. "And what, exactly, is a 'nipper?" he asked.

"Nu-uh," she shot back, "I answered your question now you gonna help me get out of here or you just going to chew my ears off? I'll warn you, they're a mite cold at the moment and they'll just grow back."

"You didn't answer my question at all," he said, his voice rising in frustration.

Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket. He turned from the woman, disgusted, and read, _On my way be there in 5._ "Alright," he said, "we have five minutes and then we're getting the hell out of here. If Molly asks where the body went, what exactly am I supposed to tell her?"

"I dunno," she said, "you seem bright. Make something up." With that she eased herself off the examination table and started limping towards the door. "This the way out then? I'll send your coat back here when I get some decent kit on. Thanks for that!"

"Oh no you don't," he said dashing in front of her and grabbing her shoulders. "You can't leave me like this. You have to tell me what's going on. If you don't tell me I will go mad and that is not an overstatement." He shook her slightly. "I refuse to beg but I can guarantee you that I will be very cross."

She looked up at him. "Alright, alright. Five minutes, then I really do have to go. My name is Vara, by the way. Not that you asked." She grinned. Cheeky.

Sherlock took her chin in his large hand and gently tilted her face to the light. Her eyes literally sparkled. As in they caught the light like a prism. "What are those, lenses?" he asked.

"Uh-uh…"

"Was that a no or a noise?"

"It was a no and a noise."

"I would ask who hurt you but you don't appear hurt, just dead. You're getting warmer though. You must be over 60 degrees by now."

"It is a little warm in here. Don't you feel warm?"

"No." He ran his thumb over her cheek and down across her bottom lip. "Open," he said. She obliged and was fairly certain that if she had worn underwear they would've ignited.

Doctor John Watson chose that moment to intrude.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Got here sooner than expected," John said, "Traffic cleared and…" he trailed off. It appeared as though a strikingly lovely young woman was sucking Sherlock's thumb and he was pretty sure that all she had on was his coat. "Am I interrupting something?"

The woman grinned around Sherlock's finger, eyeing John. "Don't be foolish," Sherlock said. "This is the body."

"What a body it is," John said quietly. She was a tiny thing, couldn't have been over five foot without shoes, but she wasn't frail. Words like full-figured, lush, and ripe went through John's mind and various extremities. The fact that he could tell her shape at all under Sherlock's huge coat said something.

"Oh, I 'ik 'em," she garbled as Sherlock probed her bottom lip, "oh's 'e?"

"Stop trying to talk," Sherlock said. "John, dead woman, dead woman, Doctor John Watson."

She waved to John, the sleeve of Sherlock's coat flapping over her wrist. "Hello," John said. "No, wait, dead woman?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "do keep up."

"She doesn't look very dead," John said.

"Her core temperature is below 70 degrees and she's had a full autopsy and toxicology. I saw her dead and now she refuses to stay that way. If you don't believe me come here and feel of her."

The woman wagged her eyebrows suggestively at John as Sherlock tilted her head to inspect her ears.

John looked between Sherlock and the woman. "Is this some kind of joke?" he asked.

"It must be. I keep expecting the other shoe to drop but that has yet to happen."

"Alright, I'm game," John said as he walked forward towards them. "May I," he asked the woman politely, motioning to her wrist.

She grinned, still staying quiet as Sherlock asked, and held out her hand. John touched her wrist and jerked back in surprise. "My God," he said, "you're freezing! Sherlock, why haven't you gotten this poor woman any clothes?"

"She is freezing because she is dead," Sherlock said calmly.

"Don't be morbid, Sherlock, she's just chilled. I'm sorry, miss, let's try this again." John grasped her wrist again. It looked very small in his hands. "Her pulse is steady if a little weak. If she has a pulse then she's alive."

"Appearances are deceiving," Sherlock said. He ran his fingers through her hair, close to the scalp. He tugged gently to check her follicle tension and she swayed towards him moaning rather inappropriately. "Oh, quit that," Sherlock said. He stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Tell me what you see, John," he said.

"I hate it when you do this to me," John said, still holding the woman's wrist. He could say that he was just trying to keep her warm but that would probably be a lie. "You always ask my opinion after you've already figured out what's happened just to make yourself feel smarter."

"Normally, yes," Sherlock said, "but this time I actually need a second opinion."

John sighed and faced the woman. "What's your name?" he asked.

Her bemused smile broadened. "Vara," she said. She had a lovely voice though her accent didn't suit her. It sounded more likely to come out of an old sailor than a sweet looking woman.

"Vara," John said. "That's nice. I'm John Watson." She only smiled up at him. "Well, Sherlock, I see a good-looking woman. Maybe Mediterranean? Late twenties. She appears in decent health, just very cold."

"That's all?" Sherlock asked. "Look closer. Look at her eyes."

John humored him and looked more closely. The color drained from his face as the light seemed to become captured in her irises and fracture into tiny rainbows. "Those are impressive contact lenses," he said weakly.

"They aren't lenses, are they Vara?" Sherlock asked.

"No, they're not," she replied patiently.

"And you're not in your twenties are you?"

"No."

"How old are you?"

She took a deep breath and some of the color came back to John's cheeks. "You really don't want to know," she said.

"Oh, but I do. Would you like me to tell you what I see, John?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked at Vara. "I see a woman far older than she appears. Judging from her accent I would say she hails from East Anglia specifically Ipswich though that nose and overall bone structure point to her obviously being Greek, you were right there, John. Her grammar is abysmal but a little put on as though she doesn't want me to know how intelligent she is. Her body is flawless. Don't smile, it's not a compliment just an observation. She's either had extensive plastic surgery or her 'miracle' skin prevents her from scarring or having blemishes, not even a freckle. I want to say that she's the product of some hitherto unknown drug but she's not. Once you eliminate the impossible what remains, however improbable, must be the truth. She wasn't lying when she told me she wasn't human. That I've come to that conclusion means I must have finally gone insane."

John blinked in astonishment. "Sherlock, if you're saying that this woman isn't human then I'm afraid I'm going to have to agree with you. You sound mad."

"He isn't mad," Vara said. "He's close to right on quite a few things. Time passes though, gentlemen." Vara faced Sherlock squarely. "If you want to know," she said, "really know what's going on you need to come with me because I have to leave. _Now_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Vara huddled at the doorway to Saint Bart's as John hailed a taxi. "He's a good egg, that one," she said to Sherlock. "Bit uptight but the military will do that to you."

"Noticed that, did you," Sherlock said. She was right, John was a good egg and a military man. He had automatically leapt to Vara's defense despite Sherlock's well-reasoned declaration of her non-humanity. If John had seen her stitches ripped from cold dead flesh he probably wouldn't feel so affectionate. Sherlock had to concede that Vara showed signs of above average intelligence and observation. Of course, the average was so appallingly low that it wasn't saying much.

Rain pelted John's uncovered head making his sandy blonde and silver hair plaster to his scalp. The weather was always unpredictable in London, but the forecast had called for completely clear skies. Sherlock took out his phone and held it carefully under his umbrella as he checked the weather again. No rain predicted, especially not a squall like this. He shuffled closer to Vara and wished he had his damn coat back. "So, what are we running from?" he asked.

"Very bad people. They're close too. This mess is their fault."

"What mess?"

She nodded up at the sky. "This muck! They want to keep me out of the sun and they're doing hell of a job of it."

"Do you mean to tell me," Sherlock started, incredulously, "that whoever is coming for you is causing it to rain?"

Vara looked up at Sherlock, one dark eyebrow crooked skyward. "You just saw me pull a second-coming-of-Christ in there and a bit of rain is unbelievable?"

John whistled at them and they ran towards the taxi, Vara's bare feet splashing on the pavement. Sherlock sat opposite John and Vara studying her closely. John thought he rather looked like a scientist studying a bug under his lens. "Why do they want to keep you out of the sun," Sherlock asked quietly, mindful of the cabbie.

"Because," she replied, "the light will help me heal faster. I can't do diddly the way I am now."

"What can you do?" John asked.

She grinned at him. "Loads of stuff."

Sherlock cleared his throat in the silence. "How did you end up in the park?"

"Can we continue the interrogation after I've got some clothes on please?" she asked.

"So you'll answer all my questions?"

"I promise to do my level best," she replied. She seemed sincere. Maybe he would get his answers. Though he wasn't sure if they would help cure his bafflement or make it worse. All he knew was that not knowing was not an option.

Thunder rolled overhead as the cab splashed noisily through the dark London streets on its way to John and Sherlock's shared flat at 221 B Baker Street. Vara looked out of the side window and shivered, pulling Sherlock's coat tight around her. "Can I ask _you_ some questions," she said quietly to Sherlock, her dark eyes still watching the street lamps outside.

"Of course," he said. "I can't promise that I'll answer everything you ask though."

Vara met his eyes, her face solemn. "Who are you? Really? I'm trusting you with a great deal, far more than you know. How do I know you won't just chop me open again to see how I tick?"

John's eyes passed between them. He knew he was temporarily forgotten but had grown accustomed to that sensation working with Sherlock for as long as he had. He could watch though, during his temporary invisibility, and he saw that underneath Sherlock's cool exterior he shaken to the bone. It was subtle, anyone who didn't know him wouldn't see it but there was a tightening around his eyes and a tilt to his chin that bespoke of deep fear. John refused to believe that this vibrant woman next to him was anything but alive, but he could not dismiss what Sherlock had told him out of hand. There was always the chance, slim though it might be, that when a mind as great as Sherlock's was wrong then it would be catastrophically wrong. He hoped that whatever was happening, odd as it seemed, that Sherlock would find his answers and that they wouldn't break him in the process.

Sherlock leaned back, his face easing somewhat as it did when he was preparing to brag on himself. "I'm a consulting detective. I assist the police whenever needed, which is often. I simply observe and report my findings."

"There's nothing simple about it," John injected, unable to help himself. "Sherlock has helped solve dozens of cases for the police."

"Oh, I believe it," Vara said. "How could you guess that I'm older than I appear, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's lips twitched in a slight grin. "Simple, really. Your bearing speaks of a woman in full possession of herself, you didn't like being naked on that table but you weren't mortified or panicked. The way you hold yourself when you walk, your head high even though you were in pain. No girl in her late twenties would've handled rising from the grave with such aplomb. There are the little things like the fullness of your cheeks and height of your breasts that speak volumes. And I don't guess."

Thunder crashed overhead, breaking the smug silence. "Bloody hell!" the cabbie barked, swerving his car uncontrollably causing John and Vara to slam into each other and Sherlock to grab the handle by his head and hold on for dear life. The lightening hit directly overhead, thankfully striking a power line and not the taxi. But if that line hadn't been there…

"How close are we to your place?" Vara asked nervously as the cab eased back into its own lane. "Because I don't want to alarm anyone but I think that may have been meant for us."

John straightened himself and looked to Sherlock who merely frowned and said, "We're almost there. Are we in danger?" he asked quietly, leaning forward to rudely invade Vara's space.

"Well, duh!" Vara said. "You bloody well know you are. Is that a problem?"

Sherlock's mouth widened into a familiar smile that always left John filled with dread. "No, Miss Vara," Sherlock purred. "That's what I was hoping you would say."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The trio dashed into the bottom floor of the walk-up like a herd of wet, bedraggled elephants. Sherlock slammed the door behind them and locked it firmly as though that would stop errant lightning strikes.

"There," John said optimistically, "we're all safe now, don't you worry."

Vara laughed quietly and patted John on the shoulder, his black jacket had been soaked through. "Oh, honey," she said, "you have no idea."

"Well," Sherlock said crisply, "let's go upstairs and you give us some idea, hm?" With that he leapt up the stairs to his rooms leaving Vara and John to follow behind.

"Is he always like this?" Vara asked.

"There are few things that excite him more than a mystery."

"Then you better keep an eye on him 'cus he may just blow to the moon before the nights out."

Vara settled into John's room upstairs to change into some of his sleeping pants and shirt while Sherlock loudly banged around the kitchen putting the kettle on.

"Sherlock," John said very quietly once Sherlock slowed down, "one minute ago you looked scared out of your wits then we get nearly electrocuted and you look like you've won a bloody trophy. I don't know about you but I have no idea what's going on and I'm sure as hell not happy about it."

"Of course you don't know what's going on," Sherlock said grinning like, to John's opinion, an idiot, "but then neither do I. Isn't that exciting! It happens so rarely for me. I really don't know how you can stand the constant tension of being ignorant."

John rolled his eyes at the dig. "Well I'm glad one of us is having a good time."

"Oh shut up," Sherlock said, "you're having plenty of fun yourself. You look at that woman like you'd have her for a meal. Well, I say woman. God knows what she really is."

"Now don't you…," John began, but he stopped himself as Vara rejoined them. His shirt was a bit too small in all the right places and she'd had to roll the cuffs a bit on his bottoms, but he guessed that she was possibly the most attractive thing he'd ever seen in his life. Her long dark hair was up in a loose knot at the base of her neck and her pale skin glowed in the warm incandescent light. "You look nice," he croaked lamely.

"Yes, lovely, that's great," Sherlock said as he leapt over to show Vara to an armchair he dragged around to face John and himself. "Now, begin at the start and don't leave anything out."

Vara looked around as she sat, taking in the general disarray of papers, books, and medical equipment. Each wall had different wallpaper, one of which was white with bold black designs and a neon yellow spray painted smiley face that had, apparently, been shot at. "Quite a place ya have here," she said. "I like the dead thing motif," she motioned to the green papered wall where a mounted dark brown bull's skull. "Why is that bovine wearing headphones?"

"Who cares about that!" Sherlock exclaimed. "How are you alive?"

"Well," Vara said, "when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much…"

Sherlock's icy blue-green eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm not afraid to strike a woman." Vara laughed loudly as John pulled Sherlock into his cushy grey leather chair. "Vara, please," John said pleadingly, "he's a nightmare at the best of times can you just answer his questions?"

Vara wiped tears from her eyes as her laughter subsided. "Ah, well, since you asked nicely." She gratefully accepted the tea John offered and cradled it in her hands to warm them. "You were right, I'm Greek originally. The area is called Serres now but I left there so long ago I don't really know if I can claim it as my own anymore."

"How long ago?" Sherlock asked pointedly as he steepled his fingers under his chin. She sighed. "Best I can guess I'm about three thousand four hundred years old."

"Bullshit," John said impulsively. "I'm sorry, no, you actually expect us to believe that?"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock said. "Go on," he urged Vara apparently swallowing her impossible age with barely a blink.

"Well, I was chosen as some young unmarried women are to, how do I put this delicately, be chopped into small pieces and fed to a flaming altar as a sacrifice to our heathen gods. I wasn't keen. I've mellowed in my old age ya know; I was quite the handful back then."

"You don't say," Sherlock said dryly.

"Oh yeah, broke all the ancient traditions and ran for my life. I ended up a whore in Babylon of all places. Hell I might be the source of that little joke. I was quick though. Always been a bit on the bright side, so I was careful with my body. You should've seen some of the diseases those poor girls would get back in those days. You think herpes is bad? This one time a girl's whole…"

"Fascinating," Sherlock interrupted, "fill us in on all the disgusting infections later and tell us how you became whatever it is that you are."

"Right, well, I got a reputation as being one of the few whores with all my own teeth and that didn't ooze on you when you got what you paid for. I had managed to set myself up well. Funny enough women weren't treated so bad then as they are now in that part of the world. I had a house with servants and everything. I had this one client who liked to experiment and I don't mean with whips and cross dressing. He was a bit like you, Mr. Sherlock, very science minded, though I guess it was more like alchemy then. Rihat, that's his name, told me that he was working on an elixir that would make him able to control anything he wanted with just his mind. I laughed him off of course. I weren't ever mean to him, but, come on you've got to be mental to believe all that, right?" She raised her eyebrows at Sherlock's almost feverish face. He leaned back into his chair and affected an air of nonchalance. "Go on," he said. "So," she continued, "a few weeks go by and I don't see him. He'd been coming regular for months, so I began to get worried."

"Whore with a heart of gold," Sherlock said, somewhat spitefully. Vara's face hardened. "Believe what you want, Mr. Holmes, I cared for the men who came to see me and not just for their money. Rihat was a sweet man and gentle too. And he did come back to me. I'm sure you can guess what happened."

"It worked."

"Yes, he had done it. To this day I can't tell you how and trust me I have spent a large part of my existence trying to figure it out but I couldn't deny that he had succeeded."

"And he had enough for you?"

"More than enough. Whatever it was it had changed him on what I now know is a molecular level, of course we didn't know that then. Not only could he control the elements, but he couldn't be killed. Not even fire could burn his skin. I know, he showed me to prove it. Stuck his hand right in the brazier and… nothing." Vara trailed off, her eyes unfocused as they saw a sweet young man desperate and ecstatic as his arm wreathed in flames refused to burn.

"You took it," Sherlock said, breaking her reverie.

"Of course," she said. "To control and manipulate everything around you and a handy side effect of eternal life? Are you telling me you wouldn't?"

Sherlock sat for a moment, thinking carefully. "No, no I don't think I would."

"Smart man," Vara said quietly.

"Really, Sherlock," John said, "assuming all this insanity is true are you telling me you wouldn't want eternal life?"

"Vara," Sherlock said, "tell John what your eternal life is like."

She smiled ruefully. "Horrifying. Just when you think humanity can't sink any lower then, boom, there's Hiroshima or a black plague or watching your friends and loved ones age and die around you by the hundreds, by the thousands. The thought of existing until the sun burns in the sky and engulfs the earth billions of years from now is… not very nice."

John swallowed loudly. He didn't believe a word of what she was saying, but she believed it and her eyes, her incredible multi-colored eyes, were beyond haunted. They were bright pools into the lower levels of hell.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's note: This one is a bit science heavy so brace yourselves. To all the physicists out there I apologize, I wiki'd this as best I could. I think I can hear you screaming from here... __Also, let's throw a little romance into this story, shall we?_

**Chapter 6**

Vara's hands trembled as she took a sip of tea. John looked stunned. He had imagined eternal life, as everyone does in idle fancy, but would never had believed that it would leave one so utterly devastated. To see the span of humanity's accomplishments over the eons had always struck him with childlike wonder. This though… "How," John said quietly to her, "um, how do you stand it all then if it's so awful?"

"I went mad ages ago," she said blandly. "Why do you think I have such a sunny disposition?"

"You seem relatively sane to me."

"In relation to what? The others are just as mad as I am, I just went about it differently."

"How differently?" Sherlock interjected.

"Well," Vara started as she sat her tea on a nearby table. "I decided that the only way I could be mad but still function a bit was to let go of all the worry and stress of everyday life and focus on keeping myself entertained. Like this, us talking here in this rather eclectic room with you interesting men is quite entertaining. So I will go on. One more day and then hopefully another. When you two die, as it is inevitable, I won't allow myself to become sad because that way lays madness. I'll just move on to some other entertainment. I've taken a liking to quarks, you know what those are?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied.

John's sweetly careworn face furrowed in confusion. "No, is it a kind of duck?" Sherlock gave John his most disappointed look. "A duck? I despair for you some days, John, I really do. Quarks are the constituents of matter; they make up everything that exists."

"Exactly," Vara said excitedly, leaning forward. "I think that's what we can control, the 'nippers and myself. 'Nippers, of course, being short for manipulators. I don't know how we can do it, I haven't gotten that far yet, but I know that with enough time the code will be cracked and the ability to control matter on a subatomic level could be revealed. It won't be just us anymore it'll be anyone. Might be a thousand years from now but it's been done once by complete accident so I imagine it can be done again."

Sherlock noted absently that Vara's folksy manner of speaking faded rather quickly when she started talking about particle physics. He liked this version of her better. "Is that why," he said, "your skin absorbs light?"

Vara's eyes widened and their depths revealed an almost human aquamarine blue. "Bloody hell, how did you figure that out?"

"You said it yourself. You needed the light to heal and to fuel these mysterious abilities you keep hinting at. You also said you couldn't do anything because, I assume, you had exhausted your stored energy on your regeneration. They left you frozen but in direct sunlight so they probably, what, had second thoughts about your assassination attempt?"

"Apparently they did. Personally if I had wanted me out-of-the-way I would've run me through a meat grinder and sank me into the Mariana Trench. You're spot on, I absorb solar radiation in a way very similar to photosynthesis. I'm fine without sunlight, I mean I won't wither and die like a houseplant trapped in a dark room, I just can't do anything very impressive. But oh you should see me during a solar flare." Vara smiled largely, the sadness wiped clean from her face. "I can accomplish things even you can't imagine, Mr. Sherlock-Smarty-pants."

"Mm, very cute. Why are your eyes that way?"

"Extended ultraviolet exposure. Regular people get cataracts, we developed freaky irises. Normally I wear dark-colored contacts or sunglasses. I suppose those are wherever my clothes are. And my phone. Those bastards took my new phone." Vara looked more distressed over her lost phone than practically anything else that happened.

"Ok," John said, "I am beyond lost. I have some questions if…" John looked towards Sherlock who nodded over his steepled fingers, lost in his own thoughts. "Vara, how many of your kind are there?"

Vara sighed. "I think there are four active not including me and around ten inactive."

"Clarify," Sherlock said tersely. Vara rolled her eyes and shook her head at John as if to say, _Oh man, this one!_ "Periodically the weight of eternity becomes too much and we can't take it any more so… Like me, once I chucked myself down a hole by a glacier for about two hundred years. The inactive ones did stuff similar so they're not an issue. It kinda makes you feel better, like a mega-nap. Boy they're gonna be shocked when they wake up. Hundreds of years of monotony then whammo! Facebook! Ah, it'll be a hoot."

"This is just too much," John muttered. He placed his head in his hands. Vara reached over to pat his knee. "I know," she said. "You're not the first I've told this to. It's hard on everyone, don't feel bad. If you don't want to believe me, it's ok. Do whatever you need to do make yourself feel better." John raised his denim blue eyes to look at her face and he simply could not reconcile what he was hearing with what he was seeing. She seemed so normal. Just a girl from the East in his clothes who was in danger. Damsel in distress. It's what they did, Sherlock and he; help people in need. He could do that. He had to focus on what he could do and not on what he couldn't comprehend. He held her hand over his knee, his hand wasn't particularly large as he wasn't a large man, but it swallowed hers. "Ok," he said, "yeah, I can do that. I just want to… _We _just want to help you."

"You're a good man, Doctor," Vara said. His heart leapt a little in his chest. _Well_, John thought to himself,_ that's idiotic of me._

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Let's say that I choose to believe you. What happens next? Are we in danger for knowing too much? Will John and I end up frozen in a park somewhere, which, by the way, you still haven't explained how and why you ended up at Saint James' Park."

Vara leaned back into her seat leaving John's knee warm and a little over excited. "Nothing will happen to you. If you went public with this information then what would happen? Would you like to take bets on how fast they'll have you two in a loony bin? You can go that route but don't think it hasn't been done before with very predictable results. As soon as I'm back up to snuff I'll keep you safe if needed, I promise. How exactly I ended up in that park even I'm not sure of though I am dying to know. Ah, well, not literally I hope. Again!" She smiled warmly at Sherlock who did not to rise to the bait. "Cuz I already… ahem!" Vara cleared her throat loudly and gave up amusing the great Sherlock Holmes as a lost cause. "If that's all, boys, I'm a bit knackered."

"One more question, if you can," Sherlock said. "Why are you running?"

Vara's eyes couldn't meet Sherlock's though she knew looking away was as damning as a written confession. She didn't want to see any look of disappointment in his eyes. She'd met great people before, men and women alike. They were rare and in all her years she had yet to avoid being drawn in just like anyone else to that greatness like a moth to a flame. To see someone admirable find you contemptuous was sadly familiar to her. "I tried to do something very foolish," she said slowly. "I'm not proud of myself and I don't blame my family for being… firm… with me. I'd really rather not say though. I don't think they'll come after me again, but it might be smarter for me to just avoid the lot of them and lay low for a while."

That wasn't the answer Sherlock wanted, but it was the best he was getting for the night, that was obvious. "I need to think. Vara does the violin bother you?"

"Uh, no. Depends how it's played, I guess."

"Good," Sherlock said briskly as he got up and went to the nearby window. He pulled back the curtains and the light from street lamps lit his face from below, throwing his cheekbones into relief which made him look less human than Vara. "Take my room, I won't be sleeping tonight." He pulled his violin from its case and started tuning the strings.

Vara looked to John who gave her a tight-lipped smile and nodded to Sherlock's room. "Get you some rest. I think we've all had a shock."

Sherlock finished rosining his bow and started to play a plaintive minuet, never turning to face Vara or wish her goodnight. She felt disappointed. _Well_, she thought to herself,_ that's idiotic of me_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

John woke later than normal. He had been kept up most of the night with his mind in turmoil. Every time he'd tried to sleep he'd see Vara with her beautiful eyes and funny way of speaking and she'd say, "John, I am the Whore of Babylon." It didn't exactly put him off but it was unsettling. How could one woman be perfectly normal and utterly abnormal all at the same time? And how on earth did he keep getting dragged into messes with these nutters? Speaking of, John got up to see what state Sherlock had worked himself into and found Sherlock where he expected him, not far from his music stand in his big leather chair with his violin clutched to his chest, his fingers plucking absently at the strings. Apart from his hair being slightly mussed, obviously from his hands absently running through the dark curls in agitation, he looked as he always looked when he was on a new case, distracted yet focused. You'd never know there was a mind whirling in there so fast there should have been smoke coming out of his ears.

"Did you get any sleep?" John asked politely as he started the kettle.

"Hmm. No." Sherlock's voice was rougher than usual from disuse.

"Plan on getting any sleep any time soon then?"

"Probably not. Not until I have this sorted," Sherlock said. His thumb plucked out a discordant series of notes.

"Where is our illustrious guest?" John smiled to himself. Of course, he didn't really believe any of this was actually happening; the eternal woman and her not quite family of undying madmen? Nah, he was probably in a coma or had a Sherlock-induced breakdown and was now drooling on himself in some padded room in a lonely hospital which, if all of this _did_ prove true, then that's the first place he planned on heading.

"I believe," Sherlock said, "she's sunbathing nude on our roof." Sherlock grinned a little when he heard pottery clatter loudly from the kitchen and John's startled curse as he spilled hot water on himself.

"What if someone sees her!" John blustered. Sherlock glanced up from his violin to meet John's worried face. "Then I imagine they'll get an eyeful," Sherlock responded calmly. It was unfair of him to needle John but it was so easy he couldn't resist. John always turned the most alarming shade of red and though Sherlock could only see the top half of his face over Sherlock's miniature chemical lab that had once been a dining room table, he put John at a 7.5 on the about-to-blow scale. "Maybe you should go check up on her, make sure she's safe from peeping pigeons." Oh, that got him to a 9, interesting.

"Well, I mean, if you think I should…"

Sherlock heard a clatter from upstairs. "Ah, well," he said with fake regret, "maybe next time."

Vara flung open the door in a rush, her long dark hair shining in waves over her shoulders which were, thankfully, clothed. She wasn't wearing John's night-clothes anymore, but a dark blue wrap dress that hit her about mid-shin. "Where did you get that?" Sherlock asked rather sharply. Vara grinned and twirled, the hem fluttering around her legs. "Do you like it?" she asked. "I ran into your lovely land-lady as I was going up and the dear loaned this to me. How did you ever deserve such a sweet woman to take care of you? Oh, hello John!" Vara waved at John who looked as though someone had clubbed him over the head. He's hit a full 10, Sherlock thought.

"I feel so much better now," Vara said before John could pull himself together enough to return her greeting. She walked to the window and basked in the sunlight. "Just like my old self."

"Should we be worried," Sherlock said dryly.

Vara peered at him through her eyelashes and gave him a long look up and down. "Hmm, maybe…"

John cleared his throat loudly from the kitchen. "Well, I for one am very glad that you've recovered." Little ass kissing never hurt anyone especially when said ass made Mrs. Hudson's dress look positively indecent.

Vara smiled brightly at John. "You're such a sweet man, Doctor. You should take lessons from him, Sherlock. He could teach you a thing or two about human interaction."

"You look different," Sherlock said, pointedly refusing to acknowledge her ridiculous notion that he had anything at all to learn from John Watson.

"Well, I would, wouldn't I?" she said. "I got my mojo back! Soaked up enough sunlight to get all my bits working properly again. Would you like to inspect me?"

"Yes, actually," Sherlock said as he put aside his violin. Vara's heart leapt into her throat. _Blimey_, she thought, _didn't think that would work_.

Sherlock towered over her and repeated what he had done the day before in the morgue. He tilted her head this way and that to observe the way light played in her eyes and across her skin, both of which were brighter and even more luminous than they had been before. He ran his fingers through her hair and she only barely had enough self-control to keep from embarrassing herself. He was close enough that she could tell he'd showered sometime in the night; he smelled like expensive body wash and bow rosin. She watched him as he watched her. Sherlock's eyes in the morning light showed they were actually two different colors, one was slightly greener than the other with a dark evergreen band on the outside and a splash of brown near the top, the other more golden near his pupil and a paler shade of blue. "Heterochromia," she sighed. "Hmm? Oh, yes," Sherlock said absently.

"What's that?" John asked, closer than Vara had expected. When he saw Sherlock plunge his hands into Vara's hair, John had decided that she also needed a professional doctor's opinion and supervision.

"It's when one eye is a different color than the other or multiple shades within the same eye," she said.

"Ah," John replied, squinting up at Sherlock. "Apparently. So, Sherlock, what is your analysis?"

"She appears livelier," he said. Sherlock turned Vara to have her back to the window. He tucked her hair and held out her ear to let the light shine through the shell in a vivid pink. "Or more alive, whatever you want to call it. Her pulse seems a little over elevated though."

John cleared his throat. "Yeah, wonder why. Should we go back to the lab?" he asked.

"Might be a bit awkward," Sherlock said. "I'm sure Molly is wondering where the body is and seeing it waltz back into the lab will be hard to explain."

"Understatement," Vara said ruefully.

Sherlock stepped back crossing his arms, his black dress shirt straining at the buttons. "So," he said, "what are we to do with you, Vara of Macedonia?"

Vara's eyes glazed a bit as she stared at his chest. _One quick tug_, she thought, _and those buttons will fly off at the speed of light._ "Whatever you want," she said, her voice husky enough to make John blush.

Sherlock smiled tightly and flopped back into his chair. "Wonderful. Now, impress me."

"What?" Vara asked.

"You feel all better now and I'd like to see an example of your tremendous powers. Go on. Surprise me."

"Oh. That."

"Yes, that. Unless, of course, all of this is some drug-fueled faffing about in which case we can all get on with our lives. I, for one, want nothing more than to put this foolishness behind us."

John winced. Sherlock might have been able to say that in a nicer way, but sometimes he couldn't resist the urge to be an insufferable dick. Vara, to her credit, did not back down to Sherlock's venom. "You'd like that, wouldn't you," she said, her voice overly sweet and her eyes daggers. "Who would've thought a mind like yours would shrink from the unknown. How… disappointing." Sherlock stiffened but said nothing. "You want proof?" Vara looked quickly around the room and grabbed a book. "Is this important?" she asked.

Sherlock read the title and shook his head. "Good," she said and in the space of a heartbeat the object went from a book to… a book, but solid, clear crystal. No. Sherlock blinked as light reflected off, but not through the book. "What is that?" he said, his voice tense. "Oh, this," Vara said quite casually. "This is now a giant diamond book." She tossed it to him and he caught it reflexively. It was heavy, heavier than it should've been for a medium size guide to British bird watching and, yes, it was quite obviously a book shaped diamond.

The room was silent for a long while. John collapsed into his battered armchair like a marionette with its strings cut.

"How?" Sherlock finally asked, dragging his mismatched eyes away from the book to look at the impossible woman before him. She raised her chin defiantly. "I told you how last night. It's not my fault you had your head up your arse and refused to believe me."

"How could I believe you? How could I possibly believe you, this is madness," he yelled as he leapt to his feet, waving the book-thing at her face. "Can you change it back," he demanded.

Vara shrunk back from him, edging farther into the sunlight. "No, I can't," she said.

"What! Why not?"

"Once I change something I can't undo it, it doesn't work that way. I can change it into something else, but it'll never be that same book again."

Sherlock looked beyond aggravated. "You said you could do anything, so prove it! There's no reason you shouldn't turn this back, it makes no sense."

"Yes it does, you prat," Vara snarled at him, getting right back in his face. "Think! Hardening an already carbon based object into a diamond is simple, one big step, but I would have to know every word, every molecule of ink, every tiny stupid picture of fucking finches, binding, glue, you name it to make that into a book again so before you get after me thinking you know anything, _anything_, better than I do you had better check yourself, you, you," Vara's lips twisted, "you big jerk!"

Vara turned and faced the window, her arms crossed and her back stiff. Sherlock lowered the book and opened his mouth to, maybe, apologize, when a shot rang out and the window in front of Vara exploded in a shower of glass and she dropped where she stood, a gaping hole in her upper chest so large you could clearly see her heart feebly beat once then stop. Sherlock dove to her, covering the wound with his hands, blood thick and hot covered him to his wrists. He was yelling though his ears were ringing and his voice sounded muffled. John leapt up the moment the shot rang out and drew his pistol from a pocket built into the side of his chair. He ran to the window and stood with his back to the wall beside it and screamed at Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock shouted.

"Get down!" John said though Sherlock had to read his lips to know what he wanted. John took a deep steadying breath, refusing to look at the mess that had been Vara, and darted his head out of the hole where the window had once been before leaning back against the wall. He hadn't seen anything. Judging from the hole in her chest _oh, God, it's huge_ he guessed a .50 caliber sniper rifle that could've been fired from as much as a mile away.

John's ears started ringing as his hearing returned and he could work out that Sherlock asked if he'd seen anything. John shook his head and slid down the wall, his knees giving out. He finally looked back at her and Sherlock who was covered in her blood. "Is she…" John gasped.

Sherlock pointlessly took her pulse. She was so tiny. Such fragile little hands. He looked at John. "She's gone," he said.

"Well," a deep voice said from the doorway, "I wouldn't say that."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

John jerked the gun up and sighted the barrel at a tall, strongly built man of obvious Middle-Eastern decent. He was wearing a deep plum suit that would've looked foolish on anyone who wasn't built like a brick wall. His full lips smiled behind a thick black beard and John's finger nearly twitched to blow that smile off of his smug, fat head.

"You can't keep a good woman down," he said, pulling on black leather gloves, "And Vara is so very, very good."

"Who the hell are you," John said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, my apologies," the man said, bending at the waist in a mocking bow. "My name is Ubar, brother of Rihat. And you, little gnat, have something that is mine."

"And you," Sherlock said as he rose slowly from Vara's body, blood dripping from his fingertips, "broke my window."

Ubar burst into laughter. "Ah," he said, "A smartass! You remind me of someone I once knew." He walked towards Sherlock, his polished shoes crunched on broken glass. "I turned his bones to fine porcelain and shoved him down a flight of stairs. Will I do this to you, or should I be… creative?" His voice was a hiss as he stood over Vara, his huge body crowding Sherlock. John kept the gun trained on the man but he knew that if he pulled the trigger it would probably just piss Ubar off.

Vara coughed weakly and John nearly leapt out of his skin. Her eyes fluttered and she reached out feebly, her hand brushing Ubar's pants cuff. Her lips bubbled with blood as she tried to speak. "See," Ubar said, "she is just fine. What's that, whore? Do you have something to say?"

"D… Don't hurt… them." John's heart broke to hear her defend them. Sherlock's hands twitched and slowly curled into fists.

Ubar's massive shoulders shook in laughter. "You stupid cow," he said to her, almost affectionately. "Your pets mean nothing to me. You be a good girl and come along with Ubar, or I will turn them inside out." He reached down and balled his hand in her beautiful, blood-soaked hair and pulled her up, her body limp. She started crying quietly and looked up at Sherlock. His cheek twitched and he said, very quietly, "Vara…"

Vara sobbed and with the last of her strength, clasped Ubar's ankle and said, "No." Ubar's lip curled and his face stiffened. His eyes flew wide and with a burst of evaporating heat his entire body froze stone solid. He tottered and fell back with a resounding crash, his hand still clutching Vara's hair. She screamed as she was pulled back with him, her hair pulling loose from her scalp, her eyes rolled back as she fainted.

"Hurry!" Sherlock yelled as he gathered up Vara into his arms. "Cut her hair loose, we have to get her to the roof!"

John tucked the gun into his waist band and pulled out his pocket knife and ruthlessly hacked at Vara's hair, setting her free. Sherlock flew to the door with John hot on his heels. It took both of them to get Vara through Mrs. Hudson's skylight; thankfully she had gone out to do her shopping and was safe.

Sherlock laid Vara in the warmest part of the roof, thankful that they lived in a flat-topped building. He sat back on his heels, careful to keep from casting a shadow. John collapsed next to Vara across from him and brushed a hank of bloody hair from her ghostly pale forehead. "Oh, God, Sherlock," he said, his voice trembling, "what are we going to do?"

Sherlock stood abruptly. "You stay here with her. I'm going back down."

"What?" John asked, startled, "Why?"

Sherlock's face hardened and his eyes flashed with malice. "Mrs. Hudson still keeps a wood axe in the shed, doesn't she?"

John nodded and Sherlock smiled coldly. "Well, John, I think I'm going to go take care of Mr. Ubar." And with that he shimmied back into the house, leaving John with the bleeding, broken woman he was fairly certain he'd fallen in love.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Sherlock grunted as he swung the last garbage bag over the bridge. There had been ten in all; Ubar had been a large man. John looked over the edge as the bag hit the water with a splash. It was dark out, he could barely make out the water rippling away from what he thought had been Ubar's head. They'd decided to spread him out over several different bridges, this last on the outskirts of London heading west.

Sherlock dusted his hands together, obviously satisfied with a job well done. They walked back to Mrs. Hudson's Ford Mondeo where Vara waited comatose and cold in the back seat. Sherlock started the car and headed further out-of-town, driving carefully so as not to attract attention. John looked back, checking on Vara for the hundredth time. Still cold, still no pulse. "She exhausted herself," John said. "She hurt herself terribly to save us."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I wonder if we could put her in a tanning bed," he said.

John turned to him. "Run that by me again."

"Think about it! She needs UV light, that's what they use," he shrugged, "I don't see why it wouldn't work."

"And how, exactly, are we going to get a woman who appears dead into a tanning parlor?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Hmm, good point. I guess we'll just have to wait 'till sunrise."

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"Far away. Obviously Mr. _Ubar_," Sherlock sneered, "wasn't working alone. God only knows how long it'll take him to come back together again but I'd rather be outside a fifty mile radius when he does."

"Yeah…" John looked out of the window at the tail end of London at night. They were getting into the suburbs where things quieted down a bit, the lights farther and farther apart as the urban sprawl dwindled then eventually gave way to rolling countryside. It had taken them the better part of the day to dispose of Ubar. John had come back to the room cradling a broken Vara in his arms to see Sherlock decked out like Dexter the Lumberjack. They had to take their grisly task in shifts; Vara had really done a number freezing him and it felt like carving solid stone. Then poor Mrs. Hudson had come home and while John distracted her downstairs, Sherlock bagged up what they had and cleaned up the worst of the mess. The blood though, Vara's blood, was on the floor like someone had spilled a gallon of dark red paint that refused to clean up properly. So they did the only thing they could do which was to pack up, borrow Mrs. Hudson's car, and get the hell out of London.

John sighed and looked back at Vara again. "Oh quit that," Sherlock said exasperated. "She's fine. You saw her. Hole the size of your fist in her chest and she took that walking mountain down like a champ. You know, that was actually pretty impressive of her."

John blinked in disbelief. "Well," he said, "you make sure to tell her that when she wakes up."

Sherlock grimaced. "I don't know if I'd go that far," he said.

John smiled and reached back to hold Vara's limp, cold hand. "I may have an idea," he said.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, my family always went on holidays down in Cornwall. I know my way around some of the smaller villages pretty well. I'm sure we could find somewhere to stay."

"Works for me. There's too much of this that I don't understand and I need somewhere quiet to think. Then, once she recovers, I can get some answers out of her."

John frowned. "She's been through a lot Sherlock, don't be too rough on her."

Sherlock huffed. "She'll be fine." He glanced down at John's hand holding Vara's and sighed. "You're getting too attached."

"What?" John bristled.

"Don't 'what' me. You think this is going to turn out well, the two of you? Please. Not only is she thousands of years old she's being hunted for who knows what reason by people or things just as unnatural as she is. You plan on growing old with her, are you? You will, she won't. And she's already said she wouldn't give a damn if either of us died. It doesn't sound promising to me."

John glared at him for a moment and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Ah, hell Sherlock, you're right." He looked at her still form in the darkness. "She is lovely though. Of course, it's not me she wants," he said, trying hard not to sound bitter.

"God help whomever she does want," Sherlock said, willfully ignorant. John just shook his head and kept his vigil. Vara may not love him, but he would still do his best to keep her as safe as he could. And if she got it into her head to care for Sherlock Holmes then he will offer her a shoulder to cry on for that as well.

The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon when they rolled into some random southern hamlet that suited their needs. It was small, remote, and had a vacancy. While John got the room and gritted his teeth through the "one bed or two?" routine, Sherlock parked the car around back in the biggest patch of sun he could find and hauled Vara onto the roof of the car.

Sherlock leaned against the trunk and rolled up his sleeve to apply yet another nicotine patch to his forearm. He could really use a cigarette. Hell, he'd settle for a ridiculous pipe at this rate. It would've made him more predisposed to enjoy the beautiful sunrise over the ocean, the splash of light on the waves and the crisp sent of salt-air in his lungs when all he wanted was the sweet burn of ash and smoke. He glimpsed up at Vara, a pathetic lump on the top of the car, one hand flung carelessly over the side.

He had examined Ubar carefully before crudely dissecting him. Besides a bad taste in clothes, he hadn't gotten much. That he, Sherlock Holmes, master of deduction, had drawn a blank was irritating. The care Ubar had taken to give no hint of his origin or lifestyle showed that he was more than muscle and insults, he had been smart. Was smart, he supposed. Sherlock doubted their stunt would do anything more than slow Ubar down. And Sherlock would do it all again, every whack. Vara's pet, was he?

"You look like you could chew nails," John said, interrupting Sherlock's murderous train of thought.

Sherlock slid his eyes to John and watched as he, yet again, checked Vara's pulse and temperature. He was doting on her as though she were a fragile little flower. What a joke. She could probably survive a nuclear blast and from the way John treated her it was as if she were spun glass. That's where caring got you, he supposed.

"Do you want to stay out here or shall I?" he asked John.

"Well," John said, "you haven't slept in a few days. Maybe you should try…"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, cutting him off. As usual when he became frustrated he took it out on the nearest warm body.

"Right. Well, I'll go in then and get us settled." John slammed the car door a little too hard after retrieving their bags and stomped around the building to their room.

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes, the rising sun warm on his face. Finally, peace and quiet. On the long drive down he had forced himself to accept the situation's reality. He wouldn't fight any longer with the inevitability of Vara's story. Facts were facts and if he refused to acknowledge them it would be a mistake that could bite him in the ass. After that life altering decision there were still too many questions left unanswered. The biggest, the one driving him nearly mad, was why Vara's life, or whatever you want to call it, was in such danger. Her family obviously wanted her back and weren't afraid to crawl over human bodies to do so. They didn't hesitate to hurt her either. Ubar had been more than physically violent, he'd been cruel and it came to him as easily as breathing. Sherlock wondered how long she had been called "whore" by them. What abuse had she suffered, indignities large and small tolerated for hundreds, possibly thousands of years? If he looked at it from that point of view it was easy to see why she would want to escape, but there was something more, something missing. Ubar's actions were those of a desperate man. He had been sloppy hiring a sniper, showing himself to Sherlock and John, it made no sense. What on earth had she done to scare them so badly?

Sherlock heard a tiny groan and looked back to see Vara stirring. "Ah, good," he said, cheering considerably. He stood over her, the car low enough that he could see her well, and watched carefully as she woke up. It didn't happen suddenly like in the lab at Bart's she just stirred fitfully like waking from a long nap and opened her eyes.

"Good morning," he said. "Can you speak?" He carefully moved aside her ruined dress to watch as her partially mended chest wound slowly began to heal completely. He didn't want to disturb her recovery of course, but he couldn't resist the urge to lay one finger near her breast bone to feel the muscle move beneath the skin. He could no longer see into the raw cavity of her chest but he could hear the small popping noise of her ribs snapping back in place and her destroyed scapula scrape back together. "Fascinating…" he breathed.

She took a deep, slow breath and said, "I could wake up to see your face every day for eternity and never once be tired of it." Sherlock blinked in surprise. He jerked his hand away from her chest. "Ah," he said, stammering, "that's, um, nice. Listen, do you need to stay out here or can we go inside now? We're a little exposed out here."

Vara gave a little laugh and winced. "Yeah, I am feeling a bit exposed," she said. She held out her arms and Sherlock carefully gathered her to him placing her arms around his neck. Vara nestled her head against his chest. She could hear his heart beating. He had one, maybe there was hope.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

John hovered as Sherlock laid Vara on the bed. "Is she alright?" he asked, rubbing his hands together anxiously.

Vara smiled sleepily and patted the bed beside her. "I'm fine, _Doctor_, come here. I know you were taking care of me."

John sat beside her, his face controlled but full of relief. "You scared us back there." He reached out to hold her hand which, thankfully, was warming. "Vara, I…" he trailed off at a completely loss. She squeezed his hand and said, "Thank you. Thank you both." Vara looked at Sherlock. He squirmed in discomfort. "Yes," Sherlock said, "well, anyone would've done the same. I have some questions for you."

John snapped his head around. "God, Sherlock," he said, "can't you give her five minutes to…"

"John," Vara interrupted, "it's ok." She looked down at her gory dress. "Mrs. Hudson is going to kill me. John I know it's early, but could you be a lamb and see if there's anything at all in the village that I might wear?"

John knew she was just trying to get rid of him, but heaven help him he couldn't resist the chance to help her. "Of course," he said rising. He shot Sherlock a warning look which Sherlock promptly ignored.

"And some milk," Sherlock said. John sighed, straightened his back, and marched out.

Sherlock folded his hands under his chin and looked at Vara for a long moment. She sat on the bed with her face turned to the sun. She had her eyes closed and appeared as though she were breathing in the light.

"Tell me," he said quietly. Vara sighed and without opening her eyes said, "They're trying to stop me from exposing them."

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked.

She turned to face him, her face solemn. "I was going to expose them. Us, I should say. Tell the world about us, what we can do, what we have done."

"How?"

"I dunno," she shrugged. "Hadn't gotten that far. I was thinking of walking into a cancer ward and curing everyone. Freeze the water in the Thames. Turn the BBC building into a giant teddy bear. Could do anything, really. Nothing too Jesus-y of course, wouldn't want everyone going in the wrong direction with this."

"Why?"

"Because I hate what we've become. I hate myself. What I've done. Sherlock, you have no idea. The things that Rihat created out of boredom. It's as much my fault as it is his, I was compliant. We could've made the world a utopia and all we made were monsters. Now we are monsters. I thought, maybe, if I forced their hand…" Vara rubbed her face making dried blood flakes float like morbid dust motes in the air. "Oh, God, I'm such an idiot. I just wanted to make things better…"

"Good intentions," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, I know." Vara lowered her hands. She was a mess, she felt like a mess. It was more than blood and tears, it was bone deep. Why couldn't she do one thing, just one bloody thing that was decent?

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, that wasn't what I expected."

Vara smiled a little and tilted her head. "Oh? What were you expecting?" she asked.

"Not much. I had seven ideas and none of them cast you in a good light."

"I haven't exactly cast myself in a good light, now have I? Eh, don't bother. You were nearly killed because of me. I'm sorry."

"I thought you wouldn't care if I lived or died?"

Vara gave a little laugh. "Oh, you ass. A world without Sherlock Holmes? That's a terrible thought." Her smiled faded and her eyes became lost in the distance. _But it will happen_, she thought. _He will die and the world will be without him and…_ Vara took a shaky breath and refused to cry. "Can you, um, get a kettle started? I'm parched."

Sherlock stood and walked to the little kitchenette. The cottage wasn't much, two rooms with sparse furniture that looked like it was from the second World War, and the ceiling was low enough to make Sherlock duck his head as he walked for fear of braining himself on a beam. "So, what did you make?" he asked.

He could hear her sigh. "I didn't make anything, Rihat did all that. But just use your imagination. Then keep using it for a few thousand years getting bored and then getting creative with limitless boundaries."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and leaned up, nearly smacking his head into a cupboard. His face drained of color. "Tell me," he said his back still to her.

"Anything. Everything. Every nightmare, every fairy tale, science fiction novels, horror stories, they're all true. _Everything._ He made them. If they'd been one offs it would've been fine, and some were, but no, he had to make them breed. He had to give them a way to thrive and spread. They're his children, you know? His… legacy." Her voice sounded repulsed. He looked over his shoulder at her. Vara's hands were balled into fists at her side and her face reddened with anger and embarrassment.

"There were cases," he said, slowly, "Cases I couldn't solve, cases that…"

"Cases you couldn't explain," she looked at him and her eyes burned with violet fires. "They were his. He loves England, he's done his most ambitious work here."

"Like?"

"There was only one thing that he made that I ever loved. Just one." Her eyes welled with tears. "And when he found out I loved them he took them from me. He… he took my d-dragons from me." Vara dissolved into tears. She turned her face from him, but he could see her shoulders shaking as she sobbed quietly.

Sherlock sat the kettle down, just then realizing he'd been holding it in the air for some time. He wasn't made to comfort people, it wasn't in him, but she was pitiful. He sat by her on the bed and patted her shoulder. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry. That he did that." He sat uncomfortably for a moment then hopped back up to continue making tea as loudly as possible. "So, why does he hate you?"

Vara sniffled and wiped her face on a ragged edge of her dress. "He does hate me," she said, her voice still trembling. "You're right about that. Has for ages. He didn't really know me that well when he changed me. I was just a hot piece of ass, ya know? Rihat always had ideas of how the world should have been and I've never been one to go with plans. Can you imagine me as a docile housewife? I learned though, eventually. Learned not to have friends, get close to anyone really. He'd find out I was happy then…" She slid her hand through the air. "Off with their heads. If they were lucky. That's what the dragons were." Her lips trembled. "My best friends. He thought he'd make them into monsters, huge scaly beasts, but they were still… human. Inside. And beautiful in their way. They were the last."

"When was this?"

"Um, around 1206 or so. Something like that."

Eight hundred years without a friend. Pitiful indeed.

"How many are still around?" he asked.

"Not too many, thank God. Just a few of the more vicious species survived. I figured if I told people about us then they'd be aware, people could protect themselves, ya know? It's not fair to you. You've got enough to be getting on with without throwing monsters in."

Sherlock handed her a cup of tea and sat back into one of the two chairs the room held. It creaked alarmingly but thankfully didn't shatter.

"Sherlock," Vara said quietly, "this place blows."

Sherlock smiled then started laughing quietly. She joined him, unable to help herself. "Yeah, well," he said, his voice still full of laughter, "I would've called ahead to the Four Seasons but I think I accidentally broke the phone when I was hacking up Ubar."

Vara choked on her tea. "You what?" she asked, coughing.

Sherlock smiled in satisfaction. "Didn't I tell you? He's in the Thames. In bags. Many bags."

Vara tilted her head back and roared in laughter, her tea nearly spilling in her lap. "Oh that's brilliant! It'll take him _ages_ to get back together again."

"It was your idea," he said. She raised her eyebrow in question. "Don't you remember?" he asked. "You said if anyone had to get rid of you to run you through a meat grinder and drop you in the ocean. Didn't have a meat grinder, but I did have an axe. Worked well enough."

Vara wiped her eyes and shook her head. "You are one of a kind, Sherlock Holmes."

"I know."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

John returned with enough supplies to last them a few days and was surprised to see Sherlock smiling to himself and Vara in one piece, though her red-rimmed eyes showed that she had obviously been crying.

"So," he said to Sherlock as he sat some bags on the counter, "what have you two been talking about? You seem pleased, is that a good thing?"

Sherlock chuckled, alarming John all the more. "Yes," Sherlock said, "very good. Vara's been telling me all about the things that go bump in the night. John, do you remember the case from last April with the shredded map and the dead brother? I couldn't solve it."

"Yes," John said, "you were quite… distressed."

"No need to sugar-coat it, I went on a bender for a week and you found me in Doncaster playing fiddle in a pub. I know now that whatever did the crime wasn't of this world. It was of Vara's. So, it wasn't my fault I couldn't figure it out."

"You played fiddle in a pub?" Vara asked, hiding a smile behind her hand.

"I'd lost all my money trying to cheat at dice and had to feed myself somehow but," he waved his hands excitedly, "none of that matters! Don't you see? There was a missing piece to all those cases where no logical solution could be found, now I'm closer to finding what those missing pieces were."

"What," John said, "so now you know you're still a genius it's just that the world's gone mad?"

"Exactly," Sherlock replied.

"Uh-huh." John rolled his eyes and brought Vara a bag of clothes. He placed a hand on her forehead and checked her eyes. "Pickings were a bit slim in the village, I hope you don't mind."

"No, thank you so much, John. You're amazing."

John blushed. "Yes," he said, "well, no problem. Uh, so how long are we planning on staying here? I just, I have to get back to the surgery at some point and…"

"Quite impossible," Sherlock said shortly. "We have more to worry about than your little job. If you're nervous about them letting you go, call and tell them… I don't know, that I died or something. It doesn't matter."

"Sherlock, just because you can survive on nicotine patches and whiskey doesn't mean the rest of us can. I like my job and I'd rather not lose it."

Sherlock pointed a finger at Vara. "Sitting there is the single most fascinating medical discovery of all time and you'd rather wipe snot from some brat's nose than study her?"

"Wait a minute," Vara said, "I am not a _medical discovery_!"

"It's too dangerous anyhow," Sherlock said, ignoring her outburst. "They found us at our home, you think they can't find you at your work? Until we get this mess sorted out we're all going under the radar."

"And how, exactly, are we going to sort this out?" John asked, his temper flaring.

"Alright, alright!" Vara said. "Both of you calm down. This is for me to sort out, Sherlock, not you. You've both done more than enough."

"Oh," Sherlock said, "what are you going to do? Turn yourself in to them?"

"Yes."

"_What?_" John and Sherlock exclaimed simultaneously.

"Don't sound so shocked. Listen, I really had no idea they would come after me this aggressively. I can't put both of you in danger, not like this. I don't like it either, but I said I'd keep you safe and I meant it. So I'll go back, Rihat will do whatever he wants to me then he'll get bored and forget I exist, just like he always does, and then I can get back out again. Eventually."

John stared at the floor. In his heart he knew she was right but the thought of what they would do to her was awful. She was right. _She was right._ Then why did he suddenly feel sick?

"Unacceptable," Sherlock said, very matter of fact. Vara raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arm of his rickety chair in impatience. "I have too many questions for you," he said. "There's too much I need to know. The knowledge that you have… I can't let you leave."

"Can't?" Vara said archly. "Or won't? Darling, you couldn't stop me if you had a tank."

"One week. Give me one week. They won't fire John from his _job_," he said with more than a little sneer in his voice, "and it'll give me the chance to talk to you. You won't mind that, will you? One week. With me. Here."

Vara blushed. She knew damn well she was being manipulated, but one entire week in relative seclusion with one of those most fascinating men she'd met in over a hundred years would be hard to resist. Impossible in fact. _Damn it._

"Fine," she said, her cheeks pink. "But Sherlock, if I think for one instant that you and John are in danger I will leave, no questions asked, I'll just go. John, what do you think?"

John was a military man, a captain and a doctor, practical and level-headed in most regards. He knew, logically, that he would probably be an afterthought and would in all likelihood simply sit in a corner watching Vara flirt outrageously with an unresponsive Sherlock for seven days. Then again, he would get to watch Vara for seven days. Maybe after extended exposure to Sherlock she would realize that in the dictionary under "lost romantic cause" is a picture of Sherlock Holmes and that John was enthusiastically available.

"Well," he finally said, "the clinic does owe me some vacation time. I could phone them…"

"Good, it's settled," Sherlock said, cutting him off. "For one week, Vara, you're mine."

John looked between the two of them, Vara blushing so hard even her eyes looked pink and Sherlock flushed with the kind of frantic energy that would probably result in all of them getting into more than a bit of trouble. Yep, nice peaceful vacation. Just what the doctor ordered.

* * *

Vara slept for a few hours, soaking up the afternoon sun on her little single bed as the last of her injuries healed. Sherlock sat close to her, his hands folded as ever under his chin. She'd showered in the little bathroom and changed into the long gown John had bought for her. It had tiny roses sewn around the white-collar and it looked oddly childlike on her. Or maybe that was because Vara looked like a little girl when she slept. Her face when awake was devoid of any blemish age may leave, but it contained in it a tension shown in the tightness of her eyes and the way she chewed her lips when she was thinking. If she had been human, worry lines would've formed between her dark eyebrows long before and dark circles would've inevitably been below her eyes. She laid though, on a patchwork coverlet of every color made to offend, relaxed and loose. One soft arm draped over her belly, the other flung over her head to tangle in her still damp hair. Part of Sherlock knew that other men would look at her and see the way her chest moved as she breathed as an invitation. Her lips, red and parted slightly as she breathed, would be irresistible. He saw only history. He saw kingdoms rise and fall, empires expand and crumble while she watched with her Technicolor eyes. History is written by the victors and he knew that what humanity identified of its past had been selected for them by scribes who picked at what they saw and drew out what they most wanted to see the light. But she had seen it all. She contained within her the secrets and dark truths kept hidden for ages. If only he could get her to talk.

Sherlock reached out and wrapped a dark curl around his finger. Her hair was fine and clung to his long fingers in damp loops. He knew that he could get her to tell him anything he wanted. But it would cost him. He could be charming, of course. He was smart enough to know what to say, when to say it, and how to say whatever needed to achieve his goals. Many times he had flattered Molly, the forensics technician at Bart's, to get her to help him with his more outrageous demands. He could tell what a man had for breakfast and what his mistress had ordered as well, he could damn well identify a besotted woman who looked at him with naked longing in her eyes. Molly's crush was convenient and one that was easy enough to stoke when needed. Vara, though, was different. She wasn't an inexperienced woman dazzled by a sharp mind, she was a former prostitute of an age gone by who had spent almost a thousand years in isolation. Vara was nearly as observant as he was and, in his heart of hearts, he knew that she probably surpassed him in every way he considered himself exceptional. He couldn't flash a grin and compliment her shoes and expect her to lay out a red carpet for him.

When Sherlock was young, very young, he first heard the term "asexual" and knew even from a tender age that it identified him perfectly. He'd never been once been tempted to pull a girl's pigtails to get her attention or looked dreamy-eyed at the boy next door. It simply was not in him. He knew that socially his life would've been far easier if he had any desires to one gender or the other, but as he grew older and the urges most people feel passed him by, he grew to appreciate his lack of physical passion and focused those stunted energies on passions of the mind. He had his stimulation in puzzles to unravel, mysteries to solve, and when that failed a drug habit to nurture. He had, mostly, gotten over his addiction when he'd started freelancing for the police. Near endless stimulation thanks to their almost constant incompetence gave him the fix he needed to get through the day without feeling like a wild animal slamming itself against a cage.

Sherlock would not be able to look at Vara and show her what she wanted to see; passion, fire, and lust burning in his eyes. But maybe he could show her something close, something to keep her talking. Not passion of the body but fascination of the mind. He did lust for the truth, that was certain. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe.

He sighed and pulled his hand from her hair. He would never admit to John but there were times every now and again when he deeply and truly hated himself. He knew he was a manipulative monster. He felt bad about not feeling bad. About not feeling anything at all, really. Maybe that's why he chose detective work when he could've done almost anything set before him and succeed with flying colors. He felt the need to balance out the darkness within himself by helping others and rubbing out a little of the darkness in the world. Vara had shown him that what he had thought of as darkness was only the beginning. He may have thought himself a monster in his mind but out there, right now, real monsters walked the streets. His streets. All he had to do now was figure out what lengths he would go to protect those streets and who he would have to hurt to protect the people who walked them.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Vara's eyelids felt like lead weights. She really didn't want to wake up, but she could hear the little click-click of fingers flying on a tiny keyboard and curiosity wouldn't let her sleep. Peeking one eye open she saw Sherlock curled over John's phone furiously typing away. "Whatteryouwriting?" she asked in one long slur.

Sherlock didn't look up. "Trying to keep Molly from calling the police. Something about a missing corpse."

"That'd be me, then."

"Yes. It's awkward. How are you?"

"Mkay…"

"Really? You sound horrible. Did you damage your larynx?"

Vara cleared her throat harshly and frowned. "Yeah, well, it's been a rough few days, hadn't it? I did get shot."

"Yes but you sounded fine earlier. Do I need to put you outside again?"

"Lord," she said, "sounds like you're taking the dog out. I did agree to stay here ya know, you could be a little nicer to me."

Sherlock looked up, his face a picture of practiced innocence. "I'm sorry," he said, "have we met?"

Vara grunted and dragged herself up to shuffle to the bathroom. "Where's John?" she asked.

"Out. I think. Said he needed to find his phone."

Vara paused at the bathroom door. "Uh, isn't that his phone?"

"Yes, he'll figure it out eventually."

Sherlock could hear her muttering to herself as she closed the door. His plan to mentally seduce her was going really well so far, he thought.

* * *

"I need a microscope!" Sherlock hollered at no one in particular. He stomped through the house rattling the ancient timbers. Stopping suddenly he noticed for the first time that day that he was alone. And he was talking to himself. Extensively. Damn it.

Sherlock eventually found John and Vara sitting on a hill overlooking the ocean some ways from the cottage. They'd brought food. "Oh God," Sherlock said, "are you having a picnic?"

John looked up at him, shading his eyes with his hand. "Something wrong with that?" he asked.

"Disease, John. Bugs and worms and sheep droppings. You could be sitting in a pile of shit right now and not even know it."

Vara looked around herself at the blanket and the hillside then closely inspected her wine glass. "I don't see any poo but I am severely lacking in wine which is a bloody tragedy. John?" Vara held out her glass for John to refill.

"Yes, ma'am," John said primly and tippled wine for her. Vara giggled, her shaking glass sprinkling white wine on the blanket. "He calls me ma'am," she said to Sherlock, "because I'm very old."

"Good grief," Sherlock said, "are you two drunk?"

John shook his head a little too hard. "No. I mean yes. It seemed like the thing to do. World's goin' to hell, have a drink. 'S a good British tradition."

"No no no no," Vara said, "Good British tradition would be taking over other countries because you want their stuff. Trust me, I'm Greek, I knew Alexander the Great and he did that a bunch."

Sherlock's face stilled. "Did you really know him?" he asked, his voice quietly intense.

"Nope! Just fuckin' with you," Vara said and John burst into laughter.

Sherlock's eyes rolled heavenwards. "God save me from drunken immortals," he said.

"Aw," Vara said patting the blanket beside her. "Come 'ere and sit by me. I wish I could tell you 'bout all the amazing historical people I knew, but I didn't. Know any, that is."

"Why'd you not know any? You're a fascinating woman, I figure you'd be neck-deep in that sort," John said before drinking what wine was left directly from the bottle.

Vara sighed. "World's a big place. Well, it was, ain't so much anymore. Used to take months and months to get anywhere exciting and by then all the excitement was over. Personally, I avoided all that. Quiet life, that's what I like."

Sherlock snorted and sat almost delicately on corner of the blanket, his knees folded up to his chest. "Why do I find that hard to believe," he said.

"Because," Vara said, "you haven't seen me at my best." Vara straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin though the effect was somewhat ruined by her squinting eyes and flushed cheeks. "I'm ver' dignified."

"Right. I'm sure you are," he said. "Vara, I need you to sober up and make me a microscope. I want to study your blood."

John's eyebrows rose. "Oh," John said, "can you do that, Vara?"

"What," she said, "sober up? Nope. I refuse."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "Vara, I am running out of time. We've already been here two days, I need data."

"You're such a spoil-sport. Fine, I'll just go do that then. But I don't want you to watch." She pointed a finger an inch from his nose. "You stay out here!" With that she stood with as much dignity as possible and wobbled back to the cottage.

"So," John said, "what'd you think?"

"About?"

John waved his hands about. "All this. Monsters and gorgeous women who won't die and we chopped someone up and dumped the body. It's been a busy few days."

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked out on the beautiful seascape. "I'm having difficulty processing our situation."

"It's pretty tits-up."

Sherlock laughed quietly and looked over at John. "Yeah, it is," he said. "What do you think?"

John fell back on the blanket and folded his hands behind his head. "I trust her. I mean, between the diamond book thing and coming back to life, why not believe her?"

"I believe what she's said, but there's more. I don't trust her."

John frowned at Sherlock. "What do you mean you don't trust her?"

"I can't put my finger on it but…" Sherlock trailed off. He rubbed his hands over his face in frustration. "She told you why she was running? Why they're after her?"

"Mm-hmm. She was gonna expose them. We've been talking. A lot. I think she likes me. I like her."

"Focus, John. Her story is weak. Just exposure? Doesn't make sense. Of course, they would want to stop her but there's something she's not telling us. I need to find a way to get her to talk to me."

"You could be nice."

"I have been nice."

John choked out a laugh. "Yeah, ok." Sherlock frowned at him and looked back at the cottage. "Right," Sherlock said, "I'm sure that's enough time. Coming?"

"Alright. Um. Help me up?"

Sherlock gathered up loose wine bottles and steadied John as they walked back. John knocked on the door, but tripped through before waiting for a reply. Vara sat at the room's only table with her head tilted back, a bloody rag held to her nose. Before her was a beautiful compound light microscope. Sherlock's eyes widened and he shoved past John to inspect his new toy. It had his name on it, literally. On the base it read "Sherlock's Goddamn Microscope."

"Thank you, Vara," Sherlock said reverently. She held up a thumb, but didn't dare tip her head back down for fear of spilling any more blood.

"Good Lord," John exclaimed. "What happened?"

"'Nk I bwoke a blood vessel," she muttered.

John jabbed a finger at Sherlock, sobered some by seeing Vara's blood. "No more requests!"

"But I need some slides," he said. John growled, but Vara simply pushed a kitchen bowl full of slides to Sherlock. He grinned and patted Vara on the back. "Good job," he said.

John's eyebrows shot up in surprise and Vara did her best to beam through the mess. She lowered the cloth and wiped away the worst of the blood. "Glad ya like it. I think I'm going to go lay on the front porch now, if that's alright with you. Christ Almighty, that hurt."

When Vara closed the door behind her Sherlock said quietly, "So she's limited. Hmm."

John stepped close and glowered up at him. "Was that a test?"

"Yes and no. I did need a microscope and they're complicated instruments. It makes me wonder what state Rihat gets in when he creates his monsters. I would bet good money that it weakens him."

A flash of doubt crossed John's face. "Sherlock, what are you planning?"

"To remove a threat, my dear John." With that he squeezed a drop of blood from Vara's discarded rag onto a slide and assumed a familiar position. "Now shut up."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The next four days were filled with fights and broken dishes then quiet requests for forgiveness and longing looks with John pining and Vara flirting and Sherlock becoming increasingly more irritable. Despite his best, if stunted efforts, Sherlock was unable to get any more information from Vara than her original story. The tenacity with which she clung to her convictions was, in his mind, damning in itself. The lady doth protest too much.

While Sherlock sulked, John took it upon himself to make his own inquiries. He had always known that honey drew more flies than vinegar (though Sherlock would beg to differ) and he applied his not inconsiderable flirting talents to winning Vara's confidence though apparently several thousand years of practice could create a rather stubborn spirit and his efforts were falling flat as well.

Vara looked upon their struggles with, in Sherlock's opinion, a condescending patience, but the thought of confronting the boys and possibly losing the little time she had left with them was unbearable. Even in his frustration Vara found Sherlock compelling, fascinating, and unwillingly sexy. She would watch as he sat at his new microscope and memorized the way his chest moved as he breathed, the way it would hitch if he'd struck upon something, and then his shoulders sag as he inevitably drew yet another blank. Her blood was just blood, after all. No magic there. All the while, John was a constant comfort, steady and kind. She saw why Sherlock needed him so badly. It was beyond yin and yang, John was his Metatron, the scribe to Sherlock's incomprehensible brilliance. Through John Sherlock was able to become a little more human. Sherlock would be cruel, John would sooth him and make apologies, he would withdraw into himself and John would bring him out of his bad mood with promises of small puzzles and gentle reminders to sleep or eat. Vara's face while she watched their harmony was a study in sorrow. She had once had bonds like they shared, but it had been so long ago that only on seeing John and Sherlock interact could she remember what it was like to love someone. Love, in her experience, only lead to loss and madness. The end of the week couldn't come soon enough even though it filled her with a sense of profound loneliness.

Sherlock began to take long walks along the cliffs when the walls of the cottage started to feel like they were closing in on him. More often than not he was out and Vara would watch him stalk past the little parlor window, his hands clasped behind his back, black blazer gaping open over his neatly pressed dress shirt looking for all the world like a city banker on a poorly planned holiday.

"Vara," John said quietly, breaking her reverie. "darling, we only have one more day here. Is there… is there anything at all you'd like to say before we have to go?"

She turned to see him staring at her with his sad blue eyes that were quickly getting into the habit of melting her heart. She stepped close to him and reached out to take his hand. He stood still, but caressed her knuckles with his thumb. They stood watching their entwined fingers quietly for a moment before Vara took a long slow breath. "John," she said in a whisper, "I don't want you to get hurt."

John gripped her hand more tightly. "We're already neck-deep here. Keeping us in the dark won't help."

Vara laughed quietly. "Oh, John." She looked up at him and there were tears standing in her eyes, making the colors swirl. "I don't think it would be a good idea…"

"Please. If not for me, then do it for Sherlock. He's going mad. There _is_ something, isn't there? Something that you're not telling us?"

"You've both been skirting around this since day one. Why be blunt now?"

John sighed and looked out the window though Sherlock had already long since heading up the path. "Because I can't stand to see him so twisted up over this. If you leave us tomorrow without telling him what's really going on… I don't know, Vara. I feel like it will mess him up somehow. I don't know if he can handle that."

"I told you about the monsters."

"I know you did, and thank you," John said. He reached up to hold her shoulders. "What you told him about the things that are out there will help us save lives. Don't think we don't appreciate that, but he has good instincts Vara and he feels like there's more to what's going on than you're telling us." John stepped back and ran his hand through his hair. "I just don't know what to do here."

Vara sat on the corner of the bed and put her face in her hands. She sat that way for a while and John gave her time to think over what he'd said. He started a kettle and puttered around mentally planning the next day when they would pack up and go their separate ways. As sad as that thought was, and it was breaking his heart, someone had to be practical here, and as usual it came down to him.

"Ok," Vara said. John turned to face her. He stood silently, his eyes asking her to go on. "John," she said, "I'll tell you everything, but I want him here too."

"Of course."

"Can you promise me something?"

"I'll try."

Vara sighed. That was the best she could hope for, she supposed. "Please don't hate me when I tell you?"

John cleared his throat. "I promise I will do my best."

* * *

Sherlock stomped up the barely discernible sheep path, his slick loafers giving him fits. He had bigger issues on his mind than possibly slipping and falling a hundred feet from a cliff. He wasn't one to make idle wishes, but he really did wish he could just pin Vara to a wall and do… things… to make her talk. Running out of ideas days ago, he was beginning to get desperate. Her blood had been a huge disappointment. She'd told him that it wouldn't show him anything special and damn it all she had been right. Tissue samples, every fluid he could talk her into giving, and hair had all drawn the same conclusion, Vara was human. That's all. He'd tried boiling the blood, burning the hair, and if he'd had some of his chemicals from home he would've done more but he knew the results would have been the same. Maybe Molly could come down and bring him some more tools. Sherlock huffed in exasperation. Bad idea. Might as well put two cats in a sack and shake it.

Cresting yet another hill, he didn't notice the black sedan until he was nearly upon it. Sherlock jerked back in surprise, stopping about ten feet short of the car's driver side door and mentally kicked himself for being so absorbed in his own head he'd let himself become oblivious to his surroundings.

The back door opened and out stepped a tall man in his late forties, impeccably dressed, and with the carriage of a someone accustomed to power.

"What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, his voice loud in the serene country silence.

Mycroft straightened to his full height and stared down his long nose at Sherlock. At nearly ten years his senior, Sherlock's older brother had always had his thumb on Sherlock's last and only nerve. And it burned Sherlock to the core that he suspected Mycroft was probably the quicker of the two, but was both too lazy and too materialistically ambitious to do much with it. He was the right hand of nearly every world secret service, but Sherlock felt that was a real step down in status from consulting detective.

"The country doesn't suit you, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice cultured and prissy. "You look even worse than usual."

"And you've gained three pounds since I saw you last. Atkins' not doing the trick?"

Mycroft's mouth twisted into a half-sneer half-smile. "We need to talk."

"I thought that's what we were doing."

"Mmm, yes. The subject is a delicate one, would you like to take a seat in the car?"

"Rather not if it's all the same. What subject?"

"A," Mycroft took out a small notebook from his blazer's inner pocket, "Vara of Macedonia. I believe you're staying with her in the village? Cozy romantic get-away, Sherlock, who knew."

"John's here too," Sherlock said, bristling.

"Well, whatever floats your boat, I suppose."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest without thinking. Oops, defensive body posture signally that Mycroft had hit a nerve. Damn it. And from the look on Mycroft's face, it had certainly been caught. Oh well, in for a penny and all that.

"Get to the point," Sherlock said.

"The point, dear brother, is that you're playing with fire. We've indulged you more than once, but with this you've gone too far."

"Using the royal 'we' now are we?"

Mycroft left off any attempts to soften his tone and growled, "_Yes_, if you wanted me to get to the point, then I certainly am using the royal 'we' and _we_ are not pleased. You ignorant prat, you have no idea with which the forces you are meddling."

Sherlock clicked his tongue in admonishment. "Now, now brother, mind your blood-pressure. I'd ask how you know her, but that would be inane. She's told me what she is and how she came here, there's nothing more you can add."

"Oh really," Mycroft purred, "you think that? I'd guess that since you're still here then she certainly hasn't told you everything or else you'd have left her to her brother or dumped her in the river along with him."

"How did you… Of course, you've been tailing us. Do you really have nothing better to do, Mycroft?"

"Don't try to change the subject. She's told you exactly enough to get you and John killed. The only reason you're still alive is because of my position in Her Majesty's government. I've been talking myself hoarse saving your ass, the least you could do is show some appreciation!"

Mycroft visibly had trouble controlling his emotions. Sherlock felt a tiny spiral of fear begin to curl in his stomach. He dropped his arms. "Mycroft," he said, "what's going on?"

"Now he's ready to listen to reason. Tell me, did she explain to you why she was in that park?"

"She said she was going to expose to the world the things her family had done and they were trying to stop her."

"Oh did she? How very civic of her. Let me guess, she was going to save the world like a guardian angel? Heal the sick and save the little animals?"

Sherlock's heart lurched in his chest. _This is going to be really bad, _he thought. "Just tell me, Mycroft."

"Do you remember the night you introduced me to John? You said to him that I was the government."

"I remember."

"You were wrong. I'm not the government. They are."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dense, Sherlock, it doesn't work with me. Master Rihat and his kin have been the force behind not only the British monarchy, but nearly every civilization since the fall of Babylon."

Sherlock blinked in disbelief. "Impossible."

"You've seen what she can do. I can't imagine you haven't experimented with her abilities. They're eternal and powerful, why not rule the world?"

Sherlock's face paled. "So, if Vara had exposed them…"

"Then not only would the UK crumble but the three other top world powers would as well. She could have brought every one of them to their knees. One act, one large grand display of her might would've started the ball rolling to undo thousands of years of work."

"H…how?"

"How did we get here?" Mycroft asked. He straightened the lapel on his thousand pound suit and said, "I've not been given all the facts. Despite my position, only the ruling family truly knows the deals made to allow Rihat and his brothers the right to be the real force behind the crown. I've made deductions, of course. Our country is small, but strong. We have our resources, but once Britain nearly ruled the world. How? I believe Rihat supplied the crown with unlimited wealth and resources in exchange for a position of ultimate power and the license to do whatever he wants."

"Like creating beasts? Vara told me about the things he's done, the things he's made."

"Unfortunate but necessary. In times of war desperate measures were taken and some things became uncontrollable. What are the lives of a few compared to the lives of thousands, millions? It's not for me to ask, nor for you."

Sherlock leaned weakly against the side of the car. His thoughts careened wildly in his mind. He needed time to process what he had been told. Hearing that everything you've ever known was one giant deception perpetrated by a vast global conspiracy wasn't something you had to deal with every day. Sherlock put his hands over his eyes to block out the world for just a moment while his entire way of life readjusted itself.

"Now that I've told you this," Mycroft said, "I want you to forget it."

Sherlock looked up, stunned. "Forget it?"

"The only reason I told you is because I know you. You'd have driven yourself mad not understanding all the facts and you can keep a secret, not that anyone would believe you. Without Vara there will be no evidence that any of this ever happened."

"Without…" Sherlock straightened, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Mycroft what have you done?"

"Saved you, little brother. Saved you from yourself. Again." With that, Mycroft turned without another world and got back into the car and was driven away. Sherlock watched the taillights disappear over the hillside in a haze of confusion. Then, as though slapped, he jerked violently and started running hell for leather back to the cottage though he was, of course, far too late.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Sherlock slowed as he reached the cottage and focused all of his attention on what he was seeing. If he missed something because of foolish panic, he'd never forgive himself. Even from a distance he could tell that the door hung open on only one hinge of three. There was evidence of a violent struggle, flowerpots knocked over and disturbed earth leading from the door to a set of tire tracks approximately four metres away. A body had been dragged roughly from the cottage. One large set of footprints were barely visible between the scuff marks as though the assailant had the body by the back of the arms. Another set of slightly smaller, though still masculine, prints appeared to come from around the back of the house then near the car tracks. And there was blood. A tremendous amount of blood. A small blood soaked hand had gripped the edge of the broken door, fingernails digging in before being ripped away.

Carefully, so not as to disturb the scene, Sherlock eased the door open. The path of blood and heel scuffs stopped at the crumpled form of John Watson. Sherlock's jaw worked in fury and his eyes blazed as he silently eased down by John and placed two fingers at his carotid artery. Relief hit him like a hammer when he felt John's strong pulse. He eased John onto his back and checked quickly for injuries. Despite his shirt front being covered in blood, he only had a lump on the back of his head as if from a sharp blow. It must've been a surprise attack since John was incredibly capable in a fight.

Vara was gone as he had known she would be. He also knew the blood was hers, he'd been studying it for nearly a week and had become quite familiar with the sight of it. Sherlock decided right then that Mycroft would pay for this. He had no doubt at all that his brother was to blame for John's injury and whatever horrific thing they had done to Vara.

After insuring John's safety, Sherlock eased himself into the chair he had claimed earlier in the week. Judging from the spray pattern of blood on John's shirt, Vara's throat had been cut as John was falling from his head wound. Sherlock closed his eyes and saw the scene play out in his mind. John stood facing the door with Vara between him and it, her back to the door as she faced him. They had stood very close, close enough that Vara had been unable to see John's assailant climb in through the back window in utter silence. As John was struck from behind, the front door burst open and the one with huge feet moved with incredible speed to cut her before she'd even had a chance to turn around. A shallow cut would've left a small mess, but from the distance the blood had traveled they had cut entirely through her windpipe. With one hand holding the knife, he gathered Vara by the shoulders and started dragging her towards the door. Obviously they couldn't kill her, but they had badly disabled her. She couldn't even scream.

So, two men had managed to drive up, surround the house, enter, and attack all without making a sound. It was not outside the realm of possibility, but Sherlock suspected that there were forces at work beyond what normal men could do. Neither Vara nor John had stood a chance.

John moaned quietly and rolled on his side. Sherlock kneeled down beside him, his hand helping hold up John's head. "Be still," Sherlock said, "you probably have a concussion. Can you open your eyes?"

"Mmm, lights…"

Sherlock gently laid John's head back down and dashed up to kill the lights. He grabbed a pillow from the bed and rearranged John on the floor. "There we go. John, let me know if you're going to vomit."

"'M not… W-where's Vara?" John asked weakly.

Sherlock sat limply on the floor, not caring about the blood that instantly started soaking through his pants. "I'm sorry John, she's been taken."

"Taken? What do you…"

"It's my fault. I allowed myself to become distracted. Mycroft he was here. He...," Sherlock broke off. "He, uh, had us followed and told them where we were. Vara's family, they took her."

The breath went out of John and he sagged back against the floor. They stayed quiet for a while. Sounds from the nearby village came in through the broken door. Night insects slowly began their evening chorus and somewhere over the hills a sheep cried plaintively for its shepherd.

"She was going to tell us," John said after a while. "I asked her and when you came back she was going to tell us why she was really running."

"Mycroft told me. If he was telling the truth, and that's a big if, then it isn't good."

John closed his eyes, tiny sparks danced behind his eyelids. His felt like a bomb had gone off in his head. "Tell me," he said, rubbing his index finger and thumb together, the stickiness of Vara's blood turning his stomach. He could feel it soaking through his shirt, cold and wet.

Sherlock was quiet for several minutes. "If," Sherlock began hesitantly, "Mycroft was being honest, then Vara's exposure of her family would've possibly brought the British Empire to its knees. Along with a few other major governments. Basically, the entire world could've gone to shit."

John sighed. Total mental overload. He decided to start absorbing the thought of Vara being a traitor later. Maybe after he had washed all of her blood off.

"Help me up would you, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock cautiously eased John into a seated position and, lacking any options, simply pulled John against his side and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. John only gagged a little at the change in elevation, Sherlock was proud of him. "You have at least a grade three concussion, John," Sherlock said. "We should probably get you to a hospital."

"Ugh, don't. That means I'd have to stand up. Pretty sure I'll die."

Sherlock laughed. "God," he said, "look at us. Covered in blood and concussed."

"Typical week," John said smiling despite his pain. He rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oh no you don't," Sherlock said nudging John's head back up. "You're not sleeping until we get you checked out. Come on now, let's get this over with."

Sherlock pulled John to his feet. John was very considerate to not vomit directly on Sherlock's shoes.

* * *

Sherlock had packed. It took John a moment to absorb the miracle before him, but while he was taking a bath (Sherlock refused to let him take a shower for fear of him falling), Sherlock had actually prepared them to leave. Was everything stuffed haphazardly into one giant trash bag? Yes, but John could sort that out later.

"I've already loaded up my microscope and the computers, just this to go. Are you ready?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John said, "I feel better now. Uh, Sherlock, where are we going? You said it wasn't safe to go back to the flat."

Sherlock frowned in confusion at John and started dragging the bag to the busted front door. "We're going to go save Vara, I would've thought that was obvious. Well, after we take you to a hospital and get you seen to."

"Save? How… Wait, what?"

Huffing in frustration, Sherlock dropped the bag. "It's simple, John. Vara is our… she's…"

"Our friend?"

"Yes, that. We can't leave her to the mercy of Rihat and the others. Besides, I don't trust my brother's abilities to keep us safe. We have to end this one way or another. I know you're not well so if you want to sit this one out?"

"Oh, that is not going to happen, Sherlock. But there are a few minor problems."

"Like?"

John stepped around the god-awful mess he and Vara had made and helped Sherlock lift the bag out the door. "Like," he said, "we don't know where they are. I'm guessing Mycroft still has us under surveillance so even if we did know where they were keeping her, they'll know we are coming. Oh, and if it is Vara's family we're going up against then that's like us attacking Superman with a rusty spoon. What, exactly, are we going to do when and if we find her?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked up into that dreaded I-know-but-you-don't grin of his and said, "As usual John you see but do not observe. I know exactly where Vara is and have a pretty good idea how to stop her family. I'll need your help, of course."

After writing a hasty message to the cottage owners and leaving an extra hundred quid to help cover the cleaning and repairs, Sherlock got behind the wheel of Mrs. Hudson's car and headed out.

It was very early in the morning and before long the sun would be rising. John looked over at Sherlock. The dashboard light cast Sherlock's face in harsh shadows. "You know," John said, "I'm surprised at you. Riding in to save the damsel in distress. Seems a little reckless. Illogical even."

"There's still a great deal you don't know about me, John Watson," Sherlock said. He darted a quick look at John and continued driving north.

"Well," John started, "I just figured you'd be mad at her. Bringing down the government, that's not exactly a good thing."

"It's all a matter of perspective. Just because Mycroft's been told that would be the result, doesn't mean it actually would be. You have to look at the source of his information. I imagine Rihat would say anything to keep himself in power."

"You're not just saying that because Mycroft irritates you, are you?"

"Would I do that?"

John laughed quietly then gripped his head in pain. "God, this is awful. Feels like a hangover without all the fun bits. So, you going to tell me your brilliant plan?"

"Hmm. Later. There's a hospital about ten miles from here. You rest, no wait, don't rest, you may get a blood clot and die. Just sit there and shut up."

Ah, John thought, that's the Sherlock I've come to know and… tolerate.


	15. Chapter 15

_I have now acquired the services of an amazing beta in the form of one of my loveliest friends. She has performed above and beyond the call of editing duty and I'm not sharing her. She's mine, all mine! Cue maniacal laughter! _

**Chapter 15**

The GP told John to stay awake for the next fourteen hours, but he was otherwise given a clean bill of health. Sleeping would've been impossible anyway, what with Sherlock talking to himself in sudden bursts that would jolt John out of anything resembling restfulness.

Morning had come on their long drive back to London and the sunlight burned John's eyes fiercely, but although he squinted and moaned, Sherlock fairly vibrated with excitement.

"You're doing that thing again," John said, shortly.

"What thing? I'm not doing a thing."

"Yes, you are. Vara is in danger, Sherlock. You shouldn't look as if you've just won the lottery."

"She won't be in danger for long. Worrying isn't going to help, therefore I'm not going to."

Sherlock pulled up to a red brick building barely big enough to call a garage. They were in a rougher area of London than John normally frequented, though he could easily imagine Sherlock skulking around the dilapidated homes that could've been opium dens in the 1800's.

"What are we doing here?" John asked.

"I need you to go in lieu of me and buy everything on this list," Sherlock said, as he handed John a crumpled sheet of paper. "I called ahead so it should be ready, I just need you to double-check."

"And why aren't you going in?"

"Well, they know me around here. At least, they think they do. Since we can't go back to the flat I couldn't use my usual disguise so I said that my associate would come pick everything up. That's you."

"Disguise?"

"Crack-head. Blends in well down here. Now, do hurry, we're on a schedule."

"Any chance of you telling me what's going on?"

"All in due time. Just a few more stops and we will be ready for either a heroic rescue, or an utter cock-up."

John smiled begrudgingly, something only Sherlock could make him do despite himself.

"Right," John said. "And after what feels like a very illegal activity, what are we doing?"

Sherlock impatiently drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "We, or rather I, convince Molly to lend us some liquid nitrogen then we break into Buckingham Palace." Sherlock checked his watch. "Any day now, John. Go. Now."

* * *

Molly Hooper, forensic pathologist at Saint Bartholomew's hospital, had known Sherlock years longer than John, but had no better understanding of the eccentric private detective than he did. If anything, she knew him less since she insisted on dashing her unrequited love against the rock wall Sherlock had built around his heart. It was like those odd people who fell in love with bridges or buildings. Good for them, John supposed, for what it was worth.

She had agreed to meet them round back of the hospital with a large canister of liquid nitrogen and the gear needed to handle the dangerous substance safely. Sherlock barely had to flirt over the phone. He had a way of pitching his voice just so that even John felt a tiny involuntary shiver go down his spine. Poor Molly had been defenseless.

Molly waved a little too enthusiastically when she noticed Sherlock pull up to the curb. John might as well have been on the moon for all the attention she paid him.

Sherlock popped the boot lid and climbed out, his long lean body instantly dwarfing Molly. "Right. Hello. Is this all you had?"

Molly blinked rapidly and stuttered, "Y-yes, it's all I could find short notice. I mean, not that I mind. I like helping you."

"Wonderful," Sherlock said, very pleased. He scooped up the metal canister and gently placed it in the boot, mindful to keep his hands only on the safe upper area of the flask. "And the cryotherapy gun?"

"Uh, yeah I got a few of those," she said as she fumbled in her oversized crocheted bag for the sports bottle sized metal cans with long nozzles and black plastic triggers. John knew that cryo guns were commonly used to treat skin conditions like warts and moles. He looked at Sherlock's gleeful face and started to get a tiny inkling of what he was planning.

"Sherlock," John said, "are you planning on…"

"Freezing them. Yes," Sherlock said, "it's obvious isn't it?"

"Freeze who?" Molly interjected.

Sherlock ignored her and kept on, "It all goes back to the sun. Vara said it herself, when she wanted to sleep she threw herself into a glacier. When she attacked Ubar she froze him. When the authorities found Vara she was just beginning to thaw from being frozen herself. They need the sun to survive, heat, solar radiation. Take that away and they're just a human popsicle."

"And how, exactly, are we going to freeze them? With this stuff I assume?" John asked.

"Who's Vara? The frozen body from last week?" Molly's voice trembled. "What are you doing now, Sherlock?"

"Oh, Molly," Sherlock said, surprisingly sweetly, "don't worry about us. We have it all under control." He leaned forward and pecked a kiss upon her cheek, making her blush bright red to the roots of her hair. "You've been a huge help. Now come on, John, we're nearly ready."

John nodded goodbye at the stunned pathologist and realized that Sherlock hadn't answered his question. Which was only slightly more worrying than the fact that Sherlock was humming cheerfully to himself while deftly driving through the busy London traffic.

"Right," John said eventually, "care to tell me more about the Buckingham Palace thing?"

Sherlock sighed and pulled into a spot near Angelo's, the only restaurant he actually frequents. "John," Sherlock said as he took off his seatbelt, "let's get you something to eat so that maybe your brain will start working again and you'll stop asking me stupid questions."

With that, Sherlock left John sitting alone in the car. "Perfect," John said to himself, "just perfect. Let's break into Buckingham and not tell your partner in crime anything. Not like I'm an officer in the army or a trained doctor…"

John continued grumbling to himself as he stomped into the small Italian restaurant. Angelo, the owner, always kept one particular table by the window reserved for them. He was a good bloke, even if he insisted on thinking that John and Sherlock were a couple. Just because they were rarely apart, bickered constantly, and would do anything for each other didn't mean they were a couple. Yep. Not at all.

After ordering, John folded his hands on the table before him and stared at Sherlock. He quirked one blonde eyebrow and tried to be patient. Sherlock nibbled delicately on a breadstick and said between bites, "Remember where Vara was found?"

"You said Saint James's Park."

"And where is it?"

"In London."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waved his breadstick in irritation. "You don't say? It's in _central_ London, bordered to the west by the Palace. The park is around 60 acres, she could've been dumped anywhere but she was nearest the Palace. Her core temperature rose steadily from the moment she was discovered, by calculating the degrees it rose between her discovery and awakening, she had to have originated very close to where she was found. Taking into account Rihat's political position and hold over the royal family itself, it stands to reason he resides in the Palace."

"There are other buildings near that park…"

"He's the most powerful man in Britain, if I were him I'd be there."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock's reasoning seemed sound and he didn't doubt his calculations. But Buckingham bloody Palace…

"Ok then," John said, "the stuff I picked up at that garage?"

"You saw. Gun parts, explosive components. We need to find a way to use the liquid nitrogen as a weapon against Rihat once we break into the Palace. Should be simple enough."

"Ah. Well. When you make it sound like that I don't know how we could possibly fail. Do they have wine here by the bottle?"


End file.
